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UNITED STATES OF AMERICA. 


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BREAD AND CHEESE 


AND KISSES. 


ZK ' V . 


BY B. L. FARJEON, 

AI'TIIOR ok “ GrIF,” “ I5LADK-()’-(iR.\SS,” “ LoXDON’S IIkART,” AND “JOSlirA IMaRVKL. 





FARM AND FIRESIDE LIBRARY. 

CoPVRKJlITEI), ISSl IlY F.V1:.M A.\R I'lUESIDE Co. 


Number 6, 


JrNF. l-N 


I SUlWCniFTION riGCE 
i I'EIl YE.\Tl. 


PUBLISHED BY FARM AND FIRESIDE CO. SPRINGFIELD OHIO 




Entered at the I’ost-Ofiice at Springliehl, Ohio, as secon(l-ela.ss mail matter. 


1 


EVERYBODY IN THE NORTH 

SHOULD BUBSCEIBE FOH 

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PUBLISHED AT 

SPRINGFIELD, OHIO. 


FARM AND FIRESIDE is a large sixteen page Agricultural and Home Journal. It is a 
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i ore FARM AND FIRESIDE has grown rapidly into public favor, and become a welcome 
visitor and great favorite in every household where known, and has more readers than any 
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FARM AND FIRESIDE gives as much reading matter in one year as any of the t4.00 mag- 
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rn 


ODISVILLE r ARM and P IRESIDE 

PUBLISHED AT 

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The Louisville Farm and Fireside is a large sixteen page Agricultural and Home Journal. 
It is devoted to the up-building and forwarding of Southern Agriculture, and the enlighten- 
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tinctively Southern, the people of the South cannot aflbrd to be without it. 

THE PRICE IS ONLY 50 CENTS A YEAR 


The above are the liarg-est Papers for the Price in tlic United States. 

Liberal Premiums and Cash Commissions given those who get up tliibs. Sample copies and 
I’remium List sent free to all. 

In no other way can you get so much reading matter for so little money as by subscribing 
for FARM AND FIRESIDE, of Springkteld, Ohio, at only 50 cents a year, or the 
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The subscribers of FARM AND FIRESIDE receive first notice cf new books to he pub- 
lished in Falm and Fireside Library, and obtain them a* reduced rates. 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE 


AND KISSES. 


BY B. L. FARJEON, 

u 

Author of “Grif/' “ Blade-o'-Grass,” “London's Heart," and 

“Joshua Marvel.” 


ILLUSTRATED. 



STOINGFIELD, OHIO! 

FAEM AND FIRESIDE COMPANY- 

1881 . 



^‘ONLY HEK BABE AND AKMS COULD BE SEEN.”— -Pape 74. 


[2J 


% 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE and KISSES. 

BY B. L. FAR JEON. 


INTRODUCTION; 


WHICH SERVES IN PART AS A 


DEDICATION TO THE MEMOHY OE MY MOTHER*, 


With a sense of infinite thankfulness upon me I sit down to commence my 
Christmas story. This thankfulness is born of overflowing gratitude. I am grate- 
ful that I am spared to write it, and grateful because of the belief that the Blade 
o’ Grass I put forth a year ago was — out of the goodness of many sympathizing 
hearte — not allowed to wither and die. It has been pressed upon me — and I have 
had it in my mind — to continue the history of the humble Blade o’ Grass that I 
left drooping last year ; but the social events that have occurred between that 
time and the present would not justify my doing so now. I hope to continue it 
before long. By-and-by, please God, you and I will follow the Biade o’ Grass 
through a summer all the more pleasant because of the bleak Aviuter in which it 
sprung, and by which it has hitherto been surrounded. In the meantime the 
tears that I shed over it will keep it green, I trust. And, in the meantime, it 
gladdens me to see a star shining upon it, although it stands amidst snow and 
wintry weather. 

As I sit in my quiet chamber, and think of the happy season for which I am 
writing, I seem to hear the music of its tender influence, and I wish that the 
kindly spirit which animates that day would animate not that day alone but 
every day of the three hundred and sixty-five. It might be so — it could be so. 
Then, indeed, the Good Time which noAV is always coining would be no longer 
looked forward to. 

Not that life should be a holiday; work is its wholesomest food. But some 
little more of general kindliness toward one another — of generous feeling be- 
tween class and class, as well as between person and person ; some little less con- 
•ideration of self ; some more general recognition by the high of the human and 


4 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


divine equality which the low bear to them; some little more consideration from 
the poor for tlie rich; some little more practic d })ity from the rich for the })(>or: 
some little less of the hypocrisy of life too commonly practised and too commonly 
toadied to; some better meaning in the saying* of prayers, and therefore more 
true devotion in the bending of knees; some little more benevolence in states- 
manship; some hearty, honest practicing of doing unto others even as ye would 
others should do unto you, may well be wished for — more apj)i opriately, perhaps, 
at this season than at any ether, associated as it is with all that is tender and 
bright and good. 

Why does the strain in which I am writing bring to me the memory of my 
mother? It is, I suppose, because that memory is the most sacred and the teii- 
derest that I have, and because what I feel for her is inwoven in my heart of 
hearts. 

But there is another reason. From her comes the title of my Christmas story. 
And this introduction serves in part as a dedication to the beautiful goodness of 
her nature. 

I think that in this wide world — among the thousands of millions of human 
beings who live and have passed away — there is not, and never was, a woman who 
lived her life more contentedly, nor one who strove more heartfnlly to make the 
most cheerful use of everything that fell to her lot — of even adversity of which 
she had her full share. She was beloved by all who knew her. To her sympa- 
thizing heart were confided many griefs which others had to bear; and, poor as 
she was for a long period of her life, she always — by some wonderful secret of 
which I hope she was not the only possessor — contrived to help those who came to 
her in need. I remember asking her once how she managed it. “ My dear,” she an- 
swered, with a smile which reminds me of a peaceful moonlight night, “ my dear, 

I have a lucky-bag.” Where she kept it heaven only knows; but she was con- 
tinually dipping her hand into it, and something good and sweet always came out. 
How many hearts she cheered, how many burdens she lightened, how many 
crosses she garlanded with hope, no one can tell. She never did. These things 
came to her as among the duties of life, and she took pleasure in performing 
them. I am filled with wonder and with worship as I think how naturally she 
laid aside her own hard trials to sympathize with the trials of others. 

She was a capital housewife and made much out of little. She had not one 
selfish desire, and, being devoted to her children, she made their home bright for 
them. There was no sunshine in the house when mother was away. She pos- 
sessed wonderful secrets in cookery, and I would sooner sit down to one of the 
dinners she used to prepare for us (albeit they were very humble) than to the 
grandest banquet that could be placed before me. Everything was sweet that 
came from her hands — as sweet as was everything that came from her lips. 

I would ask her often, being of an inquisitive turn of mind, “ Mother, what 
have you got for dinner to-day?” “ Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses,” she Avould 
reply, merrily. Then I knew that one of our favorite dishes was sure to be on 
the table, and I rejoiced accordingly. Sometimes, however, she would vary her 
reply by saying that dinner would consist of “ Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Han- 
dles.” Then would I sit in sackcloth and ashes; for I knew that the chance of a 
good dinner was trembling jn the balance, 


BKEAD-AND-CIIEESE AND KISSES. 


5 


But Knobs of Chairs and Pump-Handles was the exception. Bread-and-Cheese 
and Kisses was the rule. And to this day Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses bears foi 
me, in its simple utterance, a sacred and beautiful meaning. It means content 
ment; it means cheerfulness; it means the exereise of sweet words and genth 
thought; it means Home! 

Dear and sacred word ! Let us get away from the garish light that distorts it 
Let you and I, this Christmas, retire for a while and think of it and muse upon it 
Let us resolve to cherish it always, and let us unite in the hoi)e that its influence 
for inconceivable good may not be lost in the turmoil of the Great March, to the 
thunderous steps of which the world’s heart is wildly beating. Home! It is 
earth’s heaven ! The flowers that grow within garret walls prove it; the wonder- 
ing eestasy that fills the mother’s breast as she looks upon the face of her first- 
born, the quiet ministering to those we love, the unselfishness, the devotion, the 
tender word, the act of charity, the self-sacrifice that finds creation there, prove 
it; the prayers that are said as we kneel by the bedside before committing our 
bodies to sleep, the little hands folded in worship, the lisping words of praise and 
of thanks to God that come from children’s lips, the teaching of those words by 
the happy mother, so that her child may grow good, prove it. No lot in life 
is too lowly for this earth’s heaven. No lot in life is too lowly for the pure en- 
joyment of Bread-and-Cheese and Kisses. 

I wish you, dear readers and friends, no better lot than this: May Bread-and- 
Cheese and Kisses often be your fare; and may it leave a^ sw^eet a taste in your 
mouth as it has left in mine I 


PART 1. 


COME AND SHOW YOUR FACE LIKE A MAN I. 

If I were asked to point to a space of ground which of all other spaces in the 
world most truly represents the good and bad — the high and low— of humanity, I 
should unhesitatingly describe a circle of a mile around Westminster Abbey. 
Within that space is contained all that ennobles life, and all that debases it; and 
within that .space, at the same moment, the lofty aspiration of the statesman 
pulses in the great Senate House in unison with the degraded desires of the in- 
habitant of Old Pye Street. There St. Giles and St James elbow each other. 
There may be seen — in one swift, comprehensive glance — all the beauty and ugli- 
ness of life ; all its hope and hopelessness, all its vanity and modesty, all its 
knowledge and ignorance, all its piety and profanity, all its fragrance and foulness. 
The wisdom of ages, the nobility that siirung from fortunate circumstance or from 
brave endeavor, the sublime lessons that lie in faith and heroism, sanctify the 
solemn aisles of the grand old Abbey. Within its sacred cloisters rest the ashes 
of the great; outside its walls, brushing them with his ragged garments, skulks 
the thief — aiid worse. 

But not with these contrasts, nor with any lesson they may teach, have you and 
I to deal now. Our attention is fixed upon the striking of eight o’clock by the 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSEa 


a 

sonorous tongue of Westminster. And not our attention alone; for many of the 
friends with whom we shall presently shake hands are listening also — so that w« 
find ourselves suddenly plunged into very various company. Ben Sparrow, the 
old grocer — who, just as One tolls, is weighing out a quarter of a pound of brown 
sugar for a young urchin without a cap — inclines his head and listens, for all the 
world as if he were a sparrow, so bird-like is the movement ; Bessie Sparrow, his 
granddaughter, who, having put Tottie to bed, is coming down stairs in the dark 
(she has left the candle in the wash-hand basin in Tottie’s room, for Tottie cannot 
go to sleep without a light), stops and counts from One to Eight, and thinks the 
while — with eyes that have tears in them — of Somebody who at the same moment 
is thinking of her; Toltie, with one acid-drop very nearly at the point of dissolur 
tion in her mouth and with another perspiring in her hand, lies in bed and lisbi 
ens, and forgets to suck until the sound dies quite away; a patient-looking 
woman, pausing in the contemplation of a great crisis in her life, seeks to find in 
the tolling of the bell some assurance of a happy result; James Million, Member 
of Parliament — whose name, as he is a very rich man, may be said to be mul- 
titudinous — ^listens also as he rolls by in his cab ; and as his cab passes the end of 
thestreet in which Mrs. Naldret^resides, that worthy woman — who is standing on 
a chair before an open cupboard— follows the sound, with the table-cloth in her 
hand, and mutely counts One, Two, Three, Four, Five, Six, Seven, Eight; the 
last number being accompanied by a resigned sigh, as if Eight were the end of 
all things. 

The room in which Mrs. Naldret is standing is poor and comfortable; a cheer- 
ful fire is burning and the kettle is making up its mind to begin to sing. An old 
black cat is lazily blinking her eyes at the little jets of gas that thrust their forked 
tongues from between the bars of the stove. This cat is lying on a faded hearth- 
rug, in which, once upon a time, a rampant lion reigned in brilliant colors; and 
she is not at all disturbed by the thought that a cat lying full length upon a lion 
— with his tongue hanging out — is an anomaly in natiu*e and a parody in art. 
There is certainly some excuse for her in the circumstance that the lion is very 
old, and is almost entirely rubbed out 

Mrs. Naldret steps from the chair with the table-cloth in her hand, and — in one 
clever shake, and with as nimble a movement as any wizard could have made — 
shakes it open. As it forms a balloon over the table she assists it to expel the 
wind and to settle down comfortably — bfeing herself of a comfortable turn of mind 
and smoothes the creases with her palms until the cloth fits the table like wax. 
Then she sets the tea-things, scalds the tea-pot aud begins to cut the bread and to 
butter it. She cuts the bread very thick, and butters it very thin. Butter ia like 
fine gold to poor people. 

“ I don’t remember,” she says, pausing to make the reflect’on, with the knife 
in the middle of the loaf, “ its being so cold for a long time. To be sure we’re in 
December, and it’ll be Christmas in three weeks, Christmas I ” she repeats with 
a sigh, “ and George’ll not be here. He’ll be on the sea— on the stormy ocean. 
It’ll be a heavy Christmas to us. But there 1 perhaps it’s all for the best; though 
how George got the idea of emigrating into his head I can’t tell— it seemed to 
come all of a sudden like. The house won’t seem like the same when he’s away.” 
For comfort her thoughts turn in another direction — toward her husband. “ I 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


7 


wish father was home, though it isn’t quite his time — and he’s pretty punctual, is 
father.” She goes to the window and peeps at the sky through a chink in the 
shutters. “ It looks as if it was going to snow. What a bright, clear night it is 

but how cold ! It’s freezing hard ! ” Turning, she looks at the fire and at the 
cozy room gratefully. “Thank God, we’ve got a fire, and a roof to cover us I God 
help those who haven’t ! There are a many of ’em, poor creatures, and times are 
hard.” She turns again to the window, to take another peep at the sky through 
the shutters, and finds the light shut out. “ There’s some one looking into the 
room I ” she exclaims, retreating hastily out of view ; “ it can’t be Jim — ^he’s 
never done such a thing. He’s only too glad to get in-doors such nights as this. 
And it can’t be George. And there’s the lock of the street-door broken — no more 
use than a tea-pot with a hole in the bottom.” Being a woman of courage, Mrs. 
Naldret runs into the passage and opens the street-door. “Who’s there?” she 
cries, looking into the street, and shivering as the cold wind blows into her face. 
“ Who’s there ? Don’t sneak away like that, but come and show your face like a 
man ! ” 

The man pauses at the challenge, stands irresolute for a moment or two, then 
walks slowly back to the window with hanging head. 

“Show my face like a man ! ” he repeats — sadly, bitterly and with a world of 
self-reproach in his tone ; “ there’s not much of that stuflf left in me, Mrs. Nal- 
dret.” 

“Good Lord!” she exclaims, as he stands before her like a criminal; “it’s 
Saul Fielding ! ” 

“ Yes,” he replies, “ it’s Saul Fielding — God help him! ” 

“ Why can’t Saul Fielding help himself ? ” she retorts; half angrily, half pity- 
ingly. “ There was stuff enough in him once — at all events, I thought so.” 

“Show me the way!” he cries — but lowers his tone instantly and says, hum- 
bly, “ I beg your pardon, Mrs. Naldret, for speaking in that manner. It’s 
ungrateful of me to speak like that to any of George’s friends, and least of all to 
his mother, that George loves like the apple of his eye.” 

“ So he does, dear lad,” says the grateful woman, “ and it does my heart good 
to hear you say so. But you’ve nothing to be grateful to me for, Saul. I’ve 
never done you any good ; it’s never been in my power.” 

“Yes, you have; and it has been in your power, Mrs. Naldret. Why, it was 
only last week that you offered me ” 

“What you wouldn’t take,” she interrupts, hastily; “so you don’t know if I 
meant it. Let be ! Let be ! ” 

“ — That you offered me food,” he continues, steadily. “ But it’s like you and 
yours to make light of it. You’ve never done me any good! Why, you’re 
George’s mother, and you brought him into the world I And I owe him more 
than my life — ay, more than my life ! ” 

“ I know the friendship there was between you and George,” she says, setting 
the strength of his words to that account, “and that George loved you like a 
brother. More’s the pity, because of that, that you are as you are.” 

“It is so,” he assents, meekly; “but the milk’s spilled; I can’t pick it up 
again.” 

“ Saul, Saul I you talk like a woman I ” 


8 


BREAD-ANO-CltEESti AND KISSES. 


** Do I?” he aslcs, tenderly and looking into her face with respect and esteenl 
in his eyes. “ Then there’s some good left in me. I know one who is stronger 
than I am — better, wiser than a hundred such as I — and I showed my appreci- 
ation of her goodness and her worth by doing her wrong. Show my face like a 
man ! I ought to hide it, as the moles do, and show my contempt for myself by 
flying from the sight of men I ” 

Pilled with compassion, she turns her face from him, so that she may not wit- 
ness his grief. 

She is the noblest, the best of women ! ” he continues. “ In the face of God, 
T say it. Standing here, with his light shining upon me, with his keen wind 
piercing me to my bones (but it is just), I bow to her, although I see her not, as 
the nearest approach to perfect goodness which it has ever been my happiness 
and my unhappiness to come in contact with. Ay I although virtue, as humanly 
exercised, would turn its back upon her.” 

“Are you blaming the world, Saul Fielding,” she asks, in a tone that has a 
touch of sternness in it, “for a fault which is all your own?” 

“No,” he answers: “I am justifying Jane /blame the world! A pretty ob- 
ect I, to turn accuser I ” 

He a23peals to his rags, in scorn of them and of himself. 

“ Saul Fielding,” she says, after a pause, during which she feels nothing but 
ruth for his misery, “you are a bit of a scholar; you have gifts that others could, 
turn to account, if they had them. Before you — you — ’ ■ 

“Went wrong,” he adds, as she hesitates. “ I know what you want to say;. Go 
on, Mrs. Naldret. Your words don’t hurt me.” 

“Before that time George used to come home full of admiration for you and. 
your gifts. He said that you were the best-read man in all the trade; and I'm. 
sure, to hear you speak is proof enough of that. Well, let be, Saul ; let the past 
die, and make up your 'mind, like a man, to do better in the future.” 

“ Let the past die ! ” he repeats, as through the clouds that darken his mind 
rifts of human love shine, under the influence of which his voice grows inde.- 
scribably soft and tender. “Let the past! No, not for a world of world.s. 
Though it is filled with shame, I would not let it go. What are you look- 
ing for?” 

“It’s Jim’s time— my husband’s — for coming home,” she says, a little anxious- 
ly, looking up the street. “ He mightn’t like — ” But again she hesitates and 
stumbles over her words. 

“To see you talking to me. He shall not. My eyes are better than his, and 
the moment I see him turn the corner of the street I will go.’* 

“What were you looking through the shutters for?” 

“ I wanted to see if George was at home.” 

“And supposing he had been?” 

“I should have waited in the street until he came out.” 

“Do you think Jim Naldret would like to see his son talking to Saul Fielding?” 

“No, I don’t suppose he would,” he replies, quietly; “but for all that I shall 
do George no harm. I would lay down my life to serve him. You don’t know 
what binds me and George together. And he is going away soon— how soon, 
Mrs Naldret?” 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


9 


'•In a very few days,” she answers, with a sob in her throat. 

•‘God speed him 1 Ask him to see me before he goes, will you, Mrs. Naldret?^ 

“Yes, I will, Saul; and thank you a thousand times for the good feeling yon 
show to him.” 

“Tell him that I have joined the waits, and that he will hear my flute among 
them any night this week, I’ll manage so that we don’t go away from this neigh- 
borhood till he bids good-by to it.” 

“ Joined the waits 1 ” she exclaims. “ Good Lord! Have you come to that?” 

“That’s pretty low, isn’t it? ” he says, with a light laugh, and with a dash of 
satire in his tone “ But then, you know — playing the flute — is one of my gifts 
( I learned it myself when I was a boy) — and it’s the only thing I can get to do. 
Is there any tune you’re very fond of, and would like to hear ^.you lie abed? 
If there is, we’ll play it.’* 

“ If you could play a tune to keep George at home,” says Mrs. Naldret, “that’s 
the tune I’d like to hear.” 

“Your old gospel of contentment, Mrs. Naldret,” he remarks. 

“ I like to let well alone,” she replies, with emphatic nods ; “ if you’d been 
content with that, years ego, instead of trying to stir men up—” 

“I shouldn’t be as I am now,” he says, interrupting her; “you are right — you 
are right. Good-night, and God bless you 1 ” 

He shuffles ofi) without waiting for another word, blowing on his fingers, which 
are almost frozen. Mrs. Naldret, who is also cold enough by this time, is glad to 
get to her fireside to warm herself. Her thoughts foUow Saul Fielding. “Poor 
fellow! ” she muses. “I should like to have had him by the fire for a while, but 
Jim would have been angry. And, to be sure, it wouldn’t be right, with the life 
he’s been leading. But how well he talks, and how clever he is ! What’ll be 
the end of him goodness only knows. He’s made me feel quite soft. And how 
he loves George! That’s what makes me like him. ‘ You don’t know what binds 
me and George together,’ he said. ‘ I would lay down my life to serve him,’ he 
said. Well, there must be some good in a man who speaks like that I ” 


AND SO THE LAD 'GOES ON WITH IIIS BESSIE AND HIS BESSIE, UNTIL ONE 
W^OULD THINK HE HAS NEVER A MOTHER IN THE WORLD. 

By an egregious oversight on the part of the architect, designer, or what not, 
the door of Mrs. Naldret’s room turned into the passage, so that whenever it was 
opened the cold wind had free play, and made itself felt. Mrs. Naldret, bending 
before the fire to warm herself, does not hear the softest of raps on the panel, but 
is immediately afterward made sensible that somebody is coming into the ro'om 
by a chill on the nape of her neck and down the small of her back, “enough to 
freeze one’s marrow,” she says. She knows the soft foot-fall, and, without turn- 
ing, is aware that Bessie Sparrow is in the room. 

“ Come to the fire, my dear,” she says. 

Bessie kneels by her side, and the two women, matron and maid, look into the 
glowing flames, and see pictures there. Their thoughts being on the same sub- 


10 


BKEAD-AND-CHEESB AND KISSES. 


ject, tli3 pictures they see are of the same character — all relating to George, and 
ships, and wild seas, and strange lands. 

“I dreamed of you and George last night,” says Mrs. Naldret, taking Bessie’s 
hand in hers. She likes the soft touch of Bessie’s fingers. Her own are 
hai*d and full of knuckles. The liking for anything that is soft is essentially 
womanly. “ I dreamed that you were happily married, and we were all sitting 
hy your fireside, as it might be now, and I was dancing a little one upon my 
knee.” 

*‘Oh, motherl” exclaims Bessie, hiding her face on Mrs. Naldret’s neck. 

I told father my dream before breakfast this morning, so it’s sure to come 
true. The little fellow was on my knee as naked as ever it was born, 
a-cocking out its little legs and drawing of them up again like a young Samson. 
Many a time I’ve had George on my knee like that, and he used to double up his 
fists as if he wanted to fight all the world at once. George was the finest babby 
I ever did see; he walked at nine months. He’s been a good son, and’Il make a 
good husband; and he’s as genuine as salt, though I say it perhaps as shouldn’t, 
being his mother. Is your grandfather coming in to-night, Bess? ” 

“ I don’t think it. He’s busy getting ready a Christmas show for the window; 
he wants to make it look very gay, to attract business. Grandfather’s dreadfully 
worried because business is so bad. People are not laying out as much money as 
they used to do.” 

“Money don’t buy what it used to do, Bess; things are dearer, and money’s 
the same. Father isn’t earning a shilling more to-day than he earned ten years 
ago, and meat’s gone up, and rent’s gone up, and plenty of other things have 
gone up. But we’ve got to be contented, my dear, and make the best of things. 
If George could get enough work at home to keep him going, do you suppose 
he’d ever ha’ thought of going to the other end of the world?” She asks this 
question with a shrewd, watchful look into Bessie’s face, which the girl does not 
aee, her eyes being toward the fire, and adds, immediately, “Although he’s not 
going for long, thank God.” 

“It is very, very hard,” sighs Bessie, “that he should have to go.” 

“ It would de harder, my dear, for him to remain here doing nothing. There’s 
nothing that does a man — or a woman either, Bess— so much mischief as idleness. 
My old mother used to say that when a man’s idle, he’s worshiping the devil 
You know very well, Bess, that I’m all for contentment. One can make a little 
do if one’s mind is made up for it— just as one can find a great deal not enough 
if one’s mind is set that way. For my part, I think that life’s too short to worrit 
your inside out, a-wishing for this, and a-longing for that, and a-sighing for 
t’other. When George began to talk of going abroad, I said to him, ‘ Home’s 
home, George, and you can be happy on bread-and-cheese and kisses, supposing 
you can’t get better.’ ‘V ery well, mother,’ said George, Tm satisfied with that. But 
come,’ said he, in his coaxing way— you know, Bessie— ‘but come, you say home’s 
home, and you’re right, mammy.’ (He always calls me mammy when he’s going 
to get the best of me with his tongue— he knows, the cunning lad, that it reminds 
me of the time when he was a babby!) ‘You’re right, mammy,’ he said; ‘but I 
love Bess, and I want to marry her. I want to have her all to myself,’ he said. 
‘ I’m not happy when I’m away from her, he said. «I want to see her a-setting 


BREAD-AKD-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


11 


by my fireside/ he said. I don’t want to be standing at the street-door a-saying 
good-night to her’ (what a long time it takes a-saying; don’t it, Bess? Ah, I re- 
member!) — ‘a-saying good-night to her, with my arm around her waist, and mj 
heart so full of love for her that I can hardly speak’ (his very words, my dear), 
‘and then, just as I’m feeling happy and forgetting every thing else in the world, 
to hear grandfather’s voice piping out from the room behind the shop, “Don’t 
you think it’s time to go home, George ? Don’t you think that it’s time for Bes- 
sie to be abed?” And I don’t want,’ said George, ‘when I answer, in a shame- 
faced way, “All right, grandfather; just five minutes more!” to hear his voice, 
in less than half a minute, waking me out of a happy dream, calling out, 
“Time’s up, George ! Don’t you think you ought to go home, George? Don’t 
you think Bessie’s tired, George? ” ’ ‘That’s all well and good,’ said 1 to him; 
‘ but what’s that to do with going abroad?’ ‘Oh, mammy,’ he said, ‘when I 
marry Bessie don’t I want to give her a decent bed to lie upon ? Ain’t I bound 
to get a bit of furniture together?’ Well, well; and so the lad goes on with his 
Bessie and his Bessie, until one would think he has never a mother in the 
world.” 

There is not a spice of jealousy in her tone as she says this, although she pre- 
tends to pout, for the arm that is around Bessie tightens on the girl’s waist, and 
the mother’s lips touch the girl’s face lovingly. All that Mrs. Naldret has said is 
honey to Bessie, and the girl drinks it in, and enjoys it, as bright, fresh youth 
only can enjoy. 

“So,” continues Mrs. Naldret, pursuing her story, “ when George comes home 
very down in the mouth, as he does a little while ago, and says that trade’s slack, 
and he don’t see how he’s to get the bit of furniture together that he’s bound to 
have when he’s married, I knew what was coming. And as he’s got the oppor- 
tunity — and a passage free, thanks to Mr. Million” (here Mrs. Naldret looks again 
at Bessie in the same watchful manner as before, and Bessie, in whose eyes the 
tears are gathering, and upon whose face the soft glow of the fire-light is reflect- 
ed, again does not observe it) — “ I can’t blame him; though, mind you, my dear, 
if he could earn what he wants here, I’d be the last to give him a word of en- 
couragement. But he can’t earn it here, he says ; times are too bad. He can’t 
get enough work here, he says; there’s too little to do, and too many workmen 
to do it. So he’s going abroad to get it, and good luck go with him and come 
'back with him ! Say that, my dear.” 

“ Good luck go with him,” repeats Bessie, unable to keep back her tears, “ and 
come back with him ! ” 

' “ That’s right. And as George has made up his mind and can’t turn back now, 
we must put strength into him, whether he’s right or whether he’s wrong. So 
dry your eyes, my girl, and send him away with a light heart instead of a heavy 
one. Don’t you know that wet things are always heavier to carry than dry ? 
George has got to fight with the world, you see; and if a young fellow stands up 
to fight with the tears running down his cheeks, he’s bound to get the worst of it. 
But if he says, ‘ Come on ! ’ with a cheerful heart and a smiling face, he stands a 
a good chance of winning — as George will, you see if he don’t!” 

“You dear, good mother! ” and Bessie kisses Mrs. Naldret’s neck again and 
again. 


12 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


'‘Now, then,”^ays Mrs. Naldret, rising froL/i before the fire, "go and wash yonr 
eyes with cold water, my dear. Go into George’s room. Lord forgive me I ” she so» 
liloquizes when Bessie has gone, “I’d give my fingers for George not to go. But 
what’s the use of fretttng and worriting one’s life away, now that he’s made up 
his mind ? I shall be glad when they are married, though I doubt she doesn’t 
love George as well as George loves her. But it’ll come; it’ll come. Times are 
different now to what they were, and girls are different. A little more fond of 
dress and pleasure and fine ways. She was very tender just now — she feels it, 
now that George is really going. It would be better for her if he was to 
stay ; but George is right about the times being hard. Ah, well I it ain’t many of 
us as gets our bread well buttered in this part of the world I But there 1 I’ve 
tasted sweet bread without a bit of butter on it many and many a timel" 


YOU WORE ROSES THEN, MOTHER. 

Having made this reflection, Mrs. Naldret thinks of her husband again, and 
wonders what makes him so late to-night. But in a few moments she hears u 
stamping in the passage. “ That’s Jim,” she thinks, with a light in her eyes. A 
rough, comely man, with no hair on his face but a bit of English whisker of a light 
sandy color in keeping with his skin, which is of a light sandy color also. Head 
well shaped, slightly bald, especially on one side, where tne hair has been worn 
away by the friction of his two-foot rule. When Jim Naldret makes a purse of 
his lips, and rubs the side of hib bead with his rule, his mates know that he is in 
earnest. And he is very often in earnest. 

“It’s mortal cold, mother,” he says, almost before he enters. 

“There’s a nice fii-e, father,” replies Mrk Naldret, cheerfully, “that’ll soon 
warm you.” 

“I don’t know about that,” he returns, with the handle of the door in his 
hand, “ Now look here — did you ever see such a door as this? Opens bang into 
the passage.” 

“You’re always grumbling about the door, father.” 

“Well, if I like it, it doesn’t do any one any harm, does it? The architect was 
a born fool — that’s what he was.” 

To support his assertion that the architect was a bom fool, Jim Naldret thinks 
it necessary to make a martyr of himself; so he stands in the draught, and 
shivers demonstratively as the cold wind blows upon him. 

“Never mind the door, Jim,” says Mrs. Naldret, coaxingly. “ Come and wash 
your hands.” 

“But I shall mind the door!” exclaims Jim Naldret, who is endowed with a 
large organ of combativeness, and never can be induced to shirk an arguroent. 
“ The architect — he made this door for warm, weather. Then it’s all very well. 
But in this weather it’s a mistake, that’s what it is. Directly you open it comes 
a blast cold enough to freeze one. I ain’t swearing, mother, because I say blast.” 

This small pleasantry restores his equanimity, and he repeats it with approv- 
ing nods; but it produces little effect upon his wife, who says. 


BKEATJ.AND-CHEESB AND KISSES. 


IS 


** WUl you Tv-ash your hands and face, father, instead of maudlin?” 

All right, all right, mother ! Bring the basin in here, and I’ll soon sluice my- 
self.” 

Mrs. Naldret, going to her bedroom, which is at the back of the parlor, to get 
the soap and water, calls out softly from that sanctuary : 

** Bessie’s here, father.” 

**Ah,” he says, rubbing his knuckles before the fire.' “ Where is she? ” 

Up stairs in George’s room. She’ll be down presently. She’s pretty low in 
spirits, father.” 

“I suppose you’ve been having a cry together, mf ther.” By this time Mrs. 
Naldret has brought in a basin of water and a towel, which she places on a 
wooden chair. “I dare say George ’ll pipe his eye a bit or two, when he says 
good-by to some of his mates. Ugh ! the water is cold ! ” 

George pipe his eye ! Not him I He’s a man, is George — not one of your 
crying sort.” 

“ I don’t know about that,” gasps Jim Naldret; “a man maybe crying, al- 
though you don’t see the tears running down his face. Ugh ! ” 

There was something apposite to his own condition in this remark, for Jim’s 
eyes were smarting and watering in consequence of the soap getting into them. 

“That’t true, Jim. Many a one’s heart cries when the eyes are dry.” 

“ I can’t get over Mr. Million getting that passage ticket for George. I can’t 
get over it mother. It’s bothered me ever so much.” 

“Well, it’s only steerage, Jim, and you can’t say that it wasn’t kind of Mr. 
Million.” 

“ I don’t know so much about that, mother.” 

“Do you know, Jim,” says Mrs. Naldret, after a pause, during which both seem 
ta be thinking of something that they deem it not prudent or wise to speak 
about, .‘‘that I’ve sometimes fancied — ” Here the old black cat rubs itself 
against her ankles, and she stoops to fondle it, which perhaps is the reason why 
she does not complete the sentence. 

“Fancied what, mother?” 

“ That young Mr. Million was fond of Bessie.” 

“ I shouldn’t wonder,” he replies, with a cough. “Who wouldn’t be?” 

Yes ; but not in* that way.” 

“Not in what way, mother?” 

“You drive me out of all patience, Jim. As if you couldn’t understand — but 
you men are so blind ! ” 

“And you women are so knowing!” retorts Jim Naldret, in a tone made 
slightly acid, because he is groping about for the towel, and cannot find it. 
“Where is the towel, mother? That’s Bessie’s step, I know. Come and kiss me, 
my girl.” 

“ There ! ” exclaims Bessie, who had just entered the room, standing before 
him with an air of comical remonstrance, with patches of soap-suds on her nose 
and free, “ you’ve made ray face all wet.” 

“ Father never will wash the soap off his skin before he dries it,” says Mrs. 
Naldret, wiping Bessie’s face with her apron. 

“Nevermind, Bessie,” says Mr. Naldret, rubbing himself hot; “yourfaoe’ll 


14 


BMAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


stand it better than some I’ve seen. I can’t wash the color out* of your 
cheeks.” 

Bessie laughs, and asks him how does he know, and says there is a sort of 
paint that women use that defies water. While Mrs. Naldret tells him not to be 
satirical, remarking that all women have their little weaknesses. 

“Weaknesses!” echoes Mr. Naldret, digging into tlTd corners of his eyes 
viciously. “ It’s imposition, that’s what it is ! ” 

“ You’ll rub all the skin off your face, if you rub like that.’ 

“ It’s a-playing a man Mse,” continues Jim Naldret, not to be diverted from 
the subject, “ that’s what it is. It’s a — ” 



“ COME AND KISS ME, MY GIEL.”— Pape 13. 


“ Is George coming home to tea, do you know, father?” asks Mrs. Naldret, en- 
deavoring to stem the torrent. 

“No; he told me we wasn’t to wait for him. It’s a-trading under false pre- 
tenses — ” 

“ Not coming home to tea ! And here I’ve been laying the table-cloth for him, 
because I know he enjoys his tea better when there’s something white on the ta- 
ble. Mind you remember that, Bessie. There’s nothing like studying a man’s 
little ways, if you want to live happy with him.” 


BKEAD-AND-CHBESE AND KISSES. 


15 


“I wondered what the table-cloth was on for,” remarks Jim Naldret; and then 
resumes with bull-dog tenacity : “ It’s a-trading under false pretenses, that’s 
what it is I Little weaknesses ! Why — ” 

“ Now, father, will you come and have tea ? ” 

“Now, mother, will you learn manners, and not interrupt? But I can have my 
tea and talk too.” 

Mrs. Naldret makes a great fuss in setting chairs, and a great clatter with the 
cups and saucers, but her wiles produce not the slightest effect on her husband, 
who seats himself and says ; 

“Well, this is my opinion, and I wouldn’t mind a-telling of it to the queen. 
What do girls look forward to naturally? Why, matrimony, to be sure — ” 

“ Put another lump of sugar in father’s cup, Bessie. He likes it sweet.” 

“ Well,” continues the irrepressible Jim, “looking forward to that, they ought 
to be honest and fair to the men, and not try to take them in by painting them- 
selves up. It’s a good many years ago that I fell in love with you, mother, and a 
bright looking girl you was when you said Yes to me. You wore roses then, 
mother I But if when I married you, I had found that the roses in your cheek 
came off with a damp towel, and that you hadn’t any eyebrows to speak of ex- 
cept what you put on with a brush, and that what I saw of your skin before I 
married you was a deal whiter than what I saw of your skin after I married you 
—I’d— I’d— ” 

“ What on earth would you have done, father? ” asks Mrs. Naldret, laughing. 

“I’d have l.£xl you up before the magistrate,” replies Jim Naldret with 
a look of sly humor. “ I’d have had you fined, as sure as my name’s Jim.” 

“ That wouldn’t have hurt me,” said Mrs. Naldret, entering into the humor of 
the idea, and winking at Bessie; “my husband would have had to pay the 
fine.” 

Jim Naldret gives a great laugh at this conclusion of the argument, in appre- 
ciation of having been worsted by these last few pithy words, and says, with an 
admiring look at his wife: 

“ Well, let you women alone ! ” 

Then, this subject being disposed of, and Jim Naldret having had his say, Mrs. 
Naldret asks if he has brought home the Ha’penny Trumpet. 

“Yes,” he answers, “here it is. A great comfort to the poor man are the 
ha’penny papers. He gets all the news of the day for a ha’penny — all the police 
courts — ” 

“Ah,” interrupts Mrs. Naldret, “ that’s the sort of reading I like. Give me a 
newspaper with plenty of police-court cases.” 

But police-court cases have not the charm for Jim Naldret that they have for 
the women, with whom a trial for breach of promise is perhaps the most interest- 
ing reading in the world. 

“ There’s a strike in the North among the colliers,” says Jim. “ The old hands 
are beating the new men, and setting fire to their houses.” 

“ And turning,” adds Mrs. Naldret, “the women and children into the streets, 
I dare say — the wretches ! ” 

“ I don’t know so much about that, mother. Men are goaded sometimes till 
they lose their heads. If a man puts my blood up, I hit him.” 


16 


EREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


“You, father! You hurt any one!” 

“ I said I’d hit him — I didn’t say I’d hurt him. I’d hit him soft, perhaps ; but 
I’d be bound to hit him if he put my blood up.” 

“A strike’s a wicked thing, father,” is Mrs. Naldret’s commentary, 

“I don’t know so much about that. There’s a good deal to be said on both 
sides.” 

There’s Saul Fielding,” says Mrs. Naldret; “getting up a strike was the 
ruin of him — and hurt a good many others, hurt ’em badly, as you know, 
Jim.” 

By this time the tea things are cleared away, the hearth is swept up, and the 
fire is trimmed. The picture that is presented in this humble room is a very 
pleasant one ; Bessie and Mrs. Naldret are doing needle-work more as a pastime 
than anything else, and Jim is looking down the columns of the Trumpet. 

“Saul Fielding went too far,” says Jim; “and when he had dragged a lot of 
men into a mess, he deserted them and showed the white feather. I’m for ray 
rights, and I’ll stand up for them, but I’m not for violence nor unreasonable 
measures. Saul Fielding’s fine speech misled a many, who swore by him, and 
would have followed him through thick and thin. He makes a speech one night 
that sets the men on fire. I heard it myself, and I was all of a quiver; but when 
1 was in the cold air by myself I got my reason back, and I saw that Saul Feld- 
ing was putting things in a wrong light. But other men didn’t see it. Then what 
does he do ? Deserts his colors the very next day, and leaves the men that he’s 
misled in the lurch.” 

“He may have got in the air, as you did, Jim, and thought better of what he 
had said. He may have found out afterward that he was wrong.” 

“Not he! He had plenty of time to consider beforehand — seemed as if he had 
studied his speeches by heart — never stumbled over a word, as the others did, 
who were a deal honester than him — stumbled over ’em as if words was stones.” 

“ Well, poor fellow, he suflered enough. From that day the masters and men 
have been against him.” 

“He’s made his bed and he must lay on it,” says Jim Naldret; “and you 
know, mother, even if he could wipe that part of his life away, he’s not fit com- 
pany for honest men and women.” 

Jim Naldret feels inclined to say a great deal more on another subject about 
Saul Fielding, but as the subject which he would have ventilated is a delicare 
one, and refers to a woman who is not Saul Fielding’s wife, he refrains becau.se 
Bessie is present. 

“Let Saul Fielding drop, mother.” 

Mrs. Naldret deems it wise to say no more about Saul, and allows a minute or 
so to elapse before she speaks again. 

“ Anything in the paper, Jim, about that working-man that put up for Par- 
liament?” 

“ He didn’t get in.” 

Mrs. Naldret expresses her satisfaction at this result by saying that “it’s a 
g'-orl job for his family, if he’s got one.” 

•• Why shouldn’t a Horking-man be in Parliament, mother?” asks Jim N.il- 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


17 


Because he can’t be two things at once. If he fuddles away all his time at 
Parliament, he can’t have time to work ; and if he don’t work for his living he’s 
not a working-man. ” 

“ He’d work with his tongue, mother.” 

“He’d better work with his hands,” says Mrs. Naldret, emphatically, and 
leave the tongue-work to his wife. She’d do better, I’ll be bound.” 

“I’ve no doubt she would,” says Jim Naldret, with a chuckle. “ But the work- 
in jr-man in Parliament question is a problem.” 

“Well, don’t you bother your head about it — that’s other people’s business. 
My old mother used to say that every hen’s got enough to do to look after its 
own chicks, and it clacks enough over that, goodness knows.” 

“ But I’m not a hen, mother,” remonstrates Jim ; “ I’m a cock, and I like to 
have a crow now and then.” 

“Well, exclaims Mrs. Naldret, stitching viciously, “crow on your own dung- 
hill. Don’t you go encroaching on other people’s premises.” 


IF I DTD NOT LOVE HER, I WOULD NOT GO AWAY. 

The entrance of George Naldret and young Mr. Million gives a new turn to the 
conversation, and to the aspect of affairs. George Naldret needs but a very few 
words of introduction. He is like his father was when his father was a young man. 
More comely-looking because of the difference in their ages, but his little bit of 
English whisker is after the same model as his father’s, and his hair is also of a 
light sandy color. His head is well shaped, and he has contracted his father’s 
liabit of rubbing one side of it with his two-foot rule when he is in earnest. 
When he came into the world his mother declared that he was as like his father as 
two peas, which statement, regarded from a purely grammatical point of view, 
involved a contradiction of ideas. But grammar stands for nothing with some. 
Poor folk who have received imperfect education ai*e not given to hypercriticism. 
It is not what is said, but what is meant. George’s father and his father’s father 
had been carpenters before him, and as he has taken after them, he may be said 
to have become a carpenter by hereditary law. Mrs. Naldret was satisfied. To 
have a trade at one’s finger ends, as she would have expressed it, is not a bad in- 
heritance. 

Young Mr. Million was named after his father, James, and was therefore called 
young Mr. Million, to prevent confusion. His father and his father’s father had been 
brewers, or, more correctly speaking, in the brewing interest, before him, and he 
was supposed to take after them. There was this difference, however, between 
him and George Naldret. George Naldret was a thoroughly good carpenter, but 
it can not be said that young Mr. Million w’as a thorougly good brewer. In point 
of fact, he was not a brewer at all, for he knew no more of the trade than I do. 
He knew a good glass of beer when he was drinking it, but he did not know how 
to make it, as George knew a good piece of carpentering work when it was be- 
fore him; but then George could produce a similar piece of work himself. 
George took pride in his trade ; young Mr. Million looked down on his because 


18 


BREAD-AND-CHKESE AND KISSES. 


'■ ’.i 


it was a trade — he thought it ought to be a profession; although he and his were 
the last who should have thought unkindly of it, for from the profits of the fam- 
ily brewery a vast fortune had been accumulated. Estates had been bought; po- 
sition in society had been bought ; a seat in the House had been bought; per- 
haps, by-aiid-by, a title would be bought; for eminence deserves recognition. 
And a man can be eminent in so many different ways! One may be an eminent 
tea-dealer, or an eminent chiropodist, or an eminent dentist, if one’s profits are 
large enough. The seat in the House was occupied at the present time by Mr. 
James Million, senior, whose chief business in the Senate appeared to be to look 
sharply after his own interests and those of his class, and to vote as he was bid 
upon those indifferent questions of public interest which did not affect the prof- 
its of his brewery, and which were not likely to lessen his income from it. For 
Mr. Million’s brewery, being an old-established institution, had become a sacred 
“vested interest,” which it was absolute sacrilege to touch or interfere with. 
And it is true that “vested interests” are ticklish questions to deal with ; but it 
happens now and then, in the course of time, that what is a “vested interest” 
with the few (being fed and pampered until it has attained a monstrous growth) 
becomes a vested wrong to the many. Then the safety of society demands that 
something should be done to stop the monstrous growth from becoming more 
monstrous still. The name of Million was well known in the locality in which 
the Naldrets resided, for a great many of the beer shops and public houses in the 
streets round about were under the family thumb, so to speak, and it was more 
than the commercial lives of the proprietors were worth to supply any liquids 
but those that Million brewed to the thirsty souls who patronized them. And 
nice houses they were for a man to thrive upon — worthy steps upon the ladder 
of fame for a man to grow eminent by I 

Young Mr. Million was a handsome-looking fellow, with the best of clothes, and 
with plenty of money in his purse. Having no career marked out for him pend- 
ing the time Avhen he would have to step into his father’s shoes, he made one for 
himself. He became a merchant in wild oats— a kind of merchandise which is 
popularly considered to be rather a creditable thing for young men to speculate 
in ; and it was a proof of his industry that he was accumulating a large supply of 
the corn — having regard probably to its future value in the market. But in this 
respect he was emulated by many who deem it almost a point of honor to have 
their granaries well supplied with the commodity. 

As the young men enter the room, Bessie’s eyes brighten. She knows George’s 
footsteps w'ell, and has not recognized the other. George enters first, and he has 
drawn Bessie to him and kissed her, and she him, before she sees young Mr. 
Million. When she does see that heir to the family brewery, she gently releases 
herself from George’s embrace, and stands a little aside, with a heightened color 
in her face. The action is perfectly natural, and just what a modest girl would 
do in the presence of a comparative stranger— as young Mr. Million must have 
been, necessarily, he being so high in the social scale, and she so low. The 
young gentleman, in the most affable manner, shakes hands all around, and gives 
them good-evening. 

“Meeting George as I was strolling this wav,” he says, accepting the chair 
which Mrs. Naldret offers him, “ and having something to say to him, I thought 



jacEAD-AND-CHEESlC AUD KlSSaifiS. 10 

I might take advantage of his offer to step in and rest for a minute 
or so." 

Had he told the exact truth, he would have confessed that he had no idea of 
coming into the house until he heard from old Ben Sparrow, at whose shop he 
had called, that Bessie was at Mrs. Naldret’s, and that, meeting George afterward, 
he had walked with him to the door, and had accepted a casual invitation to walk 
in, given out of mere politeness, and almost as a matter of form. 

“ You have the Trumpet there, I see," continues young Mr. Million, addressing 
the master of the house ; "is there any thing particular in it?" 


" HE HAS DKAWN BESSIE TO HIM AND KISSED HER."— 18. 

"No sir," replies Jim, "nothing but the usual things — strikes, elections, and 
that like. There’s always plenty stirring to fill a newspaper." 

" That there is," says the young brewer ; " I’m sorry to hear of the strikes 
spreading. They make things bad in every way." 

"That they do, sir," chimes in Mrs. Naldret; "let well alone, I say." 

Young Mr. Million assents with a motion of his head. Perhaps he would have 
spoken if his attention had not been fixed upon Bessie, whom George has drawn 
within the circle of his arm. 

Women can’t be expected," says Jim Naldret, with rather less politeness than 
k« usually shows to his wife in company, " to undei*stand th« rights aud wrongs 


20 


BKEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


of this sort of thing. Ii’s only the horse in the shafts that feels the weight of 
the pull.” 

^‘'W’ell,” says young Mr. Million in a careless manner, no politician; I 
leave that to iny father. So, without venturing an opinion in the presence of one 
who has studied these questions” — with a condescending nod to Jim Naldret — 
“ I can’t do better than side with Mrs. Naldret, and say with her, let well alone.” 
With a graceful bow to that worthy creature, who receives it without gratitude, 
for it does not please her to find herself trapped into taking sides with a stranger, 
however much of a gentleman he may be, against her husband. 

“Mr. Million came to tell me,” says George, during the lull that follows, clear- 
ing his throat, “that the Queen of the South sails earlier than was expected. It 
goes out of the Mersey the day after to-morrow.” 

lie does not look at any one of them as he says this, but they all, with the ex- 
ception of young Mr. Million, turn their anxious eyes to George. The Queen of 
the South is the name of the ship in which George is to sail for the other end of 
the world. 

“So soon!” exclaims Mrs. Naldret, with a motherly movement toward her son. 

“So soon!” echoes Bessie, faintly, clinging closer to her lover. 

And “Why not stop at home?” is on the mother’s tongue. “Even now, why 
not stop at home, and be contented?” But she knows what George’s answer 
would be, so she restrains her speech. “ I want my Bessie,” he would have 
answered, “and I want a home to bring her to. If I did not love her, I would 
not go away, but I would be content to work here as you have done all your 
lives, and live, as you have done, from hand to mouth.” 

To cheer them, young Mr. Million tells them the latest best news from the other 
side of the world — how cheaply a man could live ; how much larger a workman’s 
earnings were there than here; what a demand there was for skilled labor; and 
what chances there were for every man whose head was screwed on the right way. 

“ Suppose a man doesn’t wish to work at his trade,” he says, “and takes it into 
his head to make a venture for three or four months. There are the gold fields. 
All over New South Wales and New Zealand new gold fields are being discov- 
ered. They say that the natives of New Zealand are bringing in great lumps of 
5old from the north, and that the ground there has never been turned over, and 
is full of gold. Once in the colonies, it takes no time to get to these places; and 
even if a man is not fortunate enough to do well, he can come back to his trade. 
The experiment that occupies three or four months in making is not a great slice 
out of a young man’s life, and the prize that’s likely to be gained is worth the 
venture. Then, at these new places, supposing George does not care to run the 
risk that lies in gold-digging, but determines to stick to his trade, what better one 
can he have than that of a carpenter? Houses and shops must be built, and they 
must be built of wood. Who is to build them? Why, carpenters! Think of 
the scope there is for good workmen. Why, a carpenter must be almost a king in 
those places ! If I hadn’t been born into a fortune,” he concludes, “ I would give 
tliree cheers for Captain Cook, and be oflf without a day’s delay.” 

When he bids them good-night, as he does presently, seeing that silence falls 
upon them and that they wish to be left alone, he does not leave a bad impres- 
sion behind him. But although he has not addressed half a dozen words to the 


lir.EAD-AND-CUEESE AND KISSES. 


21 


girl, he sees with his mind’s eye Bessie’s bright face, and no other, as he walks ’ 
through the cold air. 

Kow what on earth could a pretty girl like Bessie have to do with the stock of 
wild oats which young Mr. Million was so industriously collecting? 


WITH THE DAWNING OF A NEW YEAR, BEGIN A NEW LIFE. 

When Saul Fielding left Mrs. Naldret he made his way through the narrow 
streets, shivering and stamping, until he came to a house, the lower portion of 
which was devoted to the sale of plum-and-pease-pudding, and food of that de- 
scription. The side-door which led to the upper portion of the house was open, 
and Saul ascended the dark stairs until there were no more stairs to ascend, and 
entered a room, the low roof of which shelved in one part almost to the floor. A 
common lamp was alight, the flame being turned very low down, more, it is to be 
presumed, for the sake of economy than for safety, for there was nothing in the 
room of the slightest value. What little furniture there was was rickety and 
broken : two cane chairs, nearly bald ; the few ragged pieces of cane that were 
left in the frames were tattered and of various lengths, and mournfully pro- 
claimed, “ See what we have come to I” while one of the chairs was so completely 
decrepit, that it had lost its backbone, and had so little life left in it that it 
wheezed when sat upon ; a turn-up bedstead, which made a miserable pretense 
of being something else; a deal table, which once could flap its wings, but could 
do so no longer ; on the table two cups, which were not of a match, but this was 
really of the smallest consequence, for one was chipped and one was without a 
handle ; and a metal tea-pot, the surface of which was so battered that it might 
be likened to the face of a worn-out prize-fighter, who had played second-best in 
a hundred fierce encounters. But, common and poor as was every thing in the 
room, every thing was as clean and tidy as orderly hands could make it. 

Saul Fielding turned up the light of the lamp, and the lamp spat and spluttered 
in the operation, with a discontented air of being ill fed; this discontent was 
plainly expressed in the top of the wick, which was lurid and inflamed. There 
were signs in the room of a woman’s care, and Saul Fielding sat down upon the 
wheezy chair, and waited with his head resting upon his hand. He had not long 
to wait; the sound of light steps running up the stairs caused him to rise and 
look toward the door. 

“Janer 

She nodded and kissed him, and asked him if he were hungry, 

*‘No,” he answered; “where have you been to?” 

“ Only on a little errand. Come, you must be hungry. You’ve had no tea, I 
know.” 

She took the remains of a loaf, and a yellow basin containing a little dripping, 
from a cupboard, and cut the bread and spread the dripping soiiicitously. Then 
she pressed him to eat. 

“ I shall have some with you,” she said. 

To please her, he forced himself to eat. 


22 


BREAD-AND-CHEESB AND KISSES, 


It’s very cold, Jane.” 

“Very, Saul.” 

She was a woman who once was very fair to look at, who was fair now despite 
her poverty. She was not more than twenty-five years of age, but she looked 
older; there was no wedding-ring on her finger, and she was too poor for adorn- 
ment of any kind about her person. There was beauty in her, however; the beau- 
ty that lies in resignation. And now, as Saul Fielding looked at her furitively, he 
noticed, with evident inward fear, a certain kind of sad resolution in her man- 
ner which tempered the signs of long suft'ering which dwelt in her face. He put 
his hand timidly upon her once, and said, in a troubled voice, “ You have no 
flannel petticoat on, Jane.” 

“ No, Saul,” she answered, cheerfully; “I have pledged it.” 

An impressive silence followed. As the darkness that fell upon Egypt could 
be felt, so the silence that fell upon this room spoke — with bitter, brazen tongue. 

“I have been out all the afternoon,” she said, presently. “ First I went to — you 
know where.” Her soft voice faltered, and carried the meaning of the vague 
words to his sense. 

“And saw her?” he asked, wistfully. 

“ Yes ; she was playing on the door-step. She looked so beautiful I I — kissed 
her! ” 

All the love that woman’s heart can feel, all the tenderness of which woman’s 
love is capable were expressed in the tone in which she uttered these simple 
words. She placed her finger on her lips, and dwelt upon the memory of the 
kiss with tearful eyes, "with heart that ached with excess of love. 

“Did I tell you that last week I tried again to get work, Saul?” 

“ No,” he said; “ you failed I ” As if he knew for certain with what result. 

“Yes; I failed,” she repeated, sadly. 

“ I ask myself sometimes if I am a man,” exclaimed Saul, in contempt of him- 
self, spurning himself, as it were; “if I have anything of a man’s spirit left 
within me. Mrs. Naldret said something of that sort to me this very night — not 
unkindly, but with a good purpose, AVhen I think of myself as I was many 
years ago, it seems to me that I am transformed. And the future I Good God I 
what lies in it for us? ” 

“ I am a tie upon you, Saul.” • 

“ A tie upon me ! ” he said, in a tone of wonder. “Jane, you are my salvation ! 
But for you I should have drifted into God knows what. You are at once my 
joy and my remorse.” 

He took from the mantel-shelf a broken piece of looking-glass, and gazed at 
the reflection of his face. A bold and handsome face, but with deeper lines in it 
than his years, which were not more than thirty-two or three, warranted. Strong 
passion and dissipation had left striking marks behind them, but his clear blue 
eyes were as yet undimmed, and shone with a lustre which denoted that there 
was vigor still in him. His mouth was large, and the lips were the most notice- 
able features in his face; they were lips of one to whom eloquence came as a 
natural gift, firm, and tremulous when need be. The change that he saw in him- 
self as he looked back to the time gone by gave point and bitterness to his next 
weriU. 


BBEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


1 $ 


••I was not like this once. When you first saw me, Jane, these marks and lines 
were wanting — they have come all too soon. But no one is to blame but 1. I 
have brought it all on myself. On myself I On you! — you suffer with me, pa- 
tiently, uncomplainingly. You have a greater load than I to bear; and you will 
not let me lighten it.” 

I will not let you, Saul! I don’t understand.” 

“Because every time I approach the subject I try to approach it by a different 
road.” 

“Ah, I know now,” she said, softly, 

“Jane, I ask you for the twentieth time.” He held out his hand supplicatingly 
to her. “ Let me do what I can to remove the shame from you. Let me do what 
[ can to atone for my fault. As you love me, Jane, marry me ! ” 

As I love you, Saul, I refuse I ” 

He turned from her, and paced the room ; she watched him with steady, loving 
eyes, and the signs of a sad, fixed resolution deepened in her face. “ Come and 
sit by me, Saul.” 

He obeyed her, and she drew his head upon her breast and kissed his lips. 

“There is no question — ^no doubt of the love between us, Saul?” 

“None, Jane.” 

“ If some chance were to part us this night, and I was never to look upon 
your face again — ” 

“Jane!” 

— And I was never to look upon your face again,” she repeated with a cheer- 
ful smile, “ I should, if I lived to be an old woman, and you to be an old man, 
never for one moment doubt that you loved me through all the years.” 

^‘It is like you, Jane; your faith would not be misplaced.” 

“I know it, and I know that you would be to me the same — you would believe 
that no other man could hold the place in my heart that you have always 
held.” 

TT ft took her in his arms, and said that she was his anchor ; that as nothing on 
earth could shake her faith in him, so nothing on earth could shake his faith in 
her; after what she had said (although he knew it before, and would have staked 
his worthless life on it), could she still refuse to allow him to make her the only 
reparation it was in his power to make ? 

She waived the question for the present, and said, “We are at the lowest ebb, 

Saul.” 

*‘Ay,” he answered. 

“Then you must not speak of drifting,” she said, tenderly; “ we have drifted 
low enough. Remember, Saul,” and she took his hand in hers, and looked into 
his eyes, “ we have not ourselves alone to think of. There is another. It only 
needs resolution. Come— let us talk of it. Here there is no hope.” 

“There seems none, Jane ; all heart has left me.” 

“Elsewhere things might be better for you.” 

“ For us,” he said, correcting her. 

“ What is better for you is better for me,” she replied. “ I heard to-day that 
George Naldret — ” 

“God bless him I” 


24 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


** Amen I God bless him 1 1 heard to-day that he was going away sooner than 
was expected.” 

“I heard so too, Jane; and I went around to Mrs. Naldret’s to-night to see him 
if I could. But he had not come home.” 

“ Saul,” she said, hiding her face on his shoulder, and pressing him in her arms, 
as one might do who was about to lose what she loved best in this world, “ we 
have suffered much together; our love for each other seems to keep us down.” 

“ It is I— I only who am to blame. I commenced life badly, and went from 
bad to worse.” 

She placed her hand upon his lips, and stopped further self-accusation. \ 

“It is a blessing for many,” she said, “that those new lands have been discov- 
ered. A man can commence a new life there without being crushed by the mis- 
fortunes or faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. It 
might be a blessing to you.” 

“It might,” he assented, “if you were with me.” 

“You, with your gifts, with your talent for many things, might do SO well 
there. Saul, turn that lamp down ; the light glares and hurts my eyes.” 

He turned down the lamp ; the sullen wick flickered, once, twice, thrice, and 
the room was in darkness. 

“Let it be, Saul; don’t light it. I love to talk to you in the dark. It reminds 
me of a time — do you remember?” 

Did he remember? There came to him in the gloom of the mean room the memo- 
ry of the time, years ago, when he first told her that he loved her. In the few brief 
moments that followed, after the light had gone out, the entire scene was pre- 
sented to him; every word that was uttered by him and by her came to him. It 
was in the dark that he told her; it was in the dark that he vowed to be faithful 
to her, and she to him. It seemed as if it might have been yesterday, for he held 
her in his arms now, as he had held her then, and he felt her heart beating against 
his. But the misery of the present time was too pressing to forget for more than a 
brief space, and he raised his head from her breast, and faced the gleams of the 
clear, bright cold night, as they shone through the garret window. 

“If I were to tell you,” she resumed, “that I have felt no sorrow because of 
the position we are in— not as regards money, though that can not be worse, but 
as regards our living together, not being married — I should tell you what is not 
true. I have felt bitter, bitter sorrow — bitter, bitter shame. When friends fell 
oft’ from me I suffered much — when the dearest one I had, a girl of my own age, 
said, ‘Father forbids me to speak to you, because you are leading a wrong life; 
when you are married, perhaps father will not be so hard upon you, and we may 
be friends again — though never as we were, Jane! never as we were I’ I turned 
sick, Saul, because I loved her.” 

She paused a moment, and he, with a full sense of his unworthiness, drew a 
little away from her. What she was saying now was all the more bitter because 
hitherto no word of implied reproach had passed her lips. She knew his 
thoughts, and, in her tenderness for him, put forth her hand to draw him closer 
to her, but withdrew it immediately without fulfilling her purpose, as though it 
might make her waver. 

“ I said to mvself, Saul knows what is right; when he is in a position he will 


bread-and-cheese and kisses. 


25 


say to me, come, Jane; and I pictured to myself our going to some quiet church 
one morning, without anyone knowing it but ourselves, and coming back mar- 
ried. But it was not to be ; the part you took in the strike crushed you and kept 
you down. The masters were against you naturally; and I knew that as my 
friends had fallen off from me, so your friends and fellow-workman had fallen off 
from you. I blamed myself for it, for it was my counsel that caused you to de- 
sert the men as you had deserted the masters. I did not see the consequences 
when I spoke; I should have held my tongue.” 

“Jane,” said Saul, gloomily, “you were right; I had my doubts that vwy night, 
after I had made the speech that inflamed me in the making, as much as it in- 
flamed the men in the hearing. J lost my head; no wonder they turned against 
me afterward. I should have done the same by them. But in acting as I did, I 
acted conscientiously. What, then, did I do, when I began to feel the conse- 
quences of my own act? Sought for consolation in drink, and but for your 
steady, unwavering faith — but for your patient endurance, and your untiring ef- 
forts to bring me back to reason — might have found a lower depth than even that. 
But patient love prevailed. Death will overtake me, or I will overtake it, when 
I break the promise I gave you not long ago 1 ” 

“I know it,” she said, with a bright look which he could not see, her back be- 
ing toward the light, “ and that is why I can trust you now ; that is why I have 
courage to say what I am about to say. There is no fear between us of misap- 
prehension of each other’s words, of each other’s acts ; and therefore I do not 
hesitate. Saul, if I have done ray duty by you — and I have striven to do it, with 
all my heart and soul — it remains for you to do your duty by me.” 

He had no word to say in reply ; that he had failed in his duty to her, that 
upon her had fallen the greater part of the misery, and all the shame of their lot, 
he was fully conscious. But he had never heard her speak like this before; 
her voice was firm, though tender, and he held his breath, waiting for her next 
words. 

“It remains for you to do your duty by me.” As she repeated these words it 
required the strongest effort of her will to keep the beating of her heart and her 
inward suffering from affecting her voice. She was successful in her effort ; for, 
knowing what would occur within the next few hours, the imminence of the 
coming crisis gave her strength, and her voice was clear and steady. 

“ How — in what way ? ” he asked, in an agitated tone. 

“Be sure of one thing, Saul,” she cried, turned aside for an instant only by the 
Igitation in his voice; “be sure that I love you wholly, heartfullyl ” 

“ I am sure of it. Teach me my duty. I will do it.” 

She steadied herself again. 

“ Saul, we can not go on as we are. We have come low — very low; but worse 
is before us, if we are content to let it come without an effort to avoid it. Listen. 
The greatest happiness that can fall to my lot is to be your wife.’* 

“I believe it,” he said. 

“ But not as you are, Saul ! Tear yourself from your present surroundings — 
tear yourself from this place, where there is no hope for you nor for me 1 If we 
were at opposite ends of the world, there is a tie that binds us which neither 
of US can ever forget. If she were in her grave, her lips would seek my breast, 


I 


BREAD-ANb-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


2(J 

her little hands would stretch themselves out to you, to caress your face! What 
kind of happiness would it be for you to be able to say, Come, Jane; I have a home 
for you, for her ! ” 

He repeated with his lips, What kind of happiness ? '' but uttered no 
sound. 

“ Make the effort ! — away from here. If you succeed — never mind how hum- 
ble it is, never mind how poor — I will be your wife, loving you no more than I 
love you now, and you will repay me for all that I have suffered. If you fail — 
but you will not fail, Saul. I know it! I feel it! Make the effort; for the sake 
of my love for you, for the sake of yours for me. I think, if it were placed be- 
fore me that you should make the effort, and, failing, die, or that we should re- 
main as we are, 1 should choose to lose you, and never look upon your face 
again — Here I We are near the end of this sad year. Christmas is coming, 
Saul. Let it be the turning over of a new leaf for us. Nerve yourself — I will 
not say for your own sake, for I know how poor an incentive that would be to 
you — but for mine, and with the dawning of a new year begin a new life ! ” 

And this is the duty that remains for me to do, Jane?” 

This is the duty.” 

Not from any doubt of her, or of the task she set before him, did he pause, but 
because he was for a while overpow^ered by the goodness of the woman who had 
sacrificed all for him — who loved him, believed in him, and saw still some capac- 
ity for good in him. When he had conquered his emotions, he said, in a broken 
tone : 

“ And then, should such a happy time ever come, you will let me make the 
poor reparation — you will marry me ? ” 

“ How gladly ! ” she exclaimed, “ oh, how gladly ! ” 

No more words are needed than that I promise, Jane? ” 

“ No more, Saul.” 

“ I promise. With all my strength I will try.” 

He knelt before her, and, with his head in her lap, shed tears there, and prayed 
for strength, prayed with trustfulness, though the road was dark before him. 
Lifting his head, he saw the light of the clear, cold sky shining through the win- 
dow at her back. With her arms clasped around his neck, she leaned forward 
and kissed him, and as he folded her in his embrace, he felt that there were tears 
also on her face. 

“ The world would be dark without you, dear woman,” he said. 

Again she kissed him, and asked if it were not time for him to go. 

He answered, Yes ; and yet was loth to go. 

Good-night, Jane.” 

“Good-night, dear Saul.” 

With the handle of the door in his hand, he turned toward her, and saw her 
standing with the light shining upon her. 


BREAD- AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


27 


BEAR LOVE, GOOD-BYE. 

It was three o^clock in the morning before Saul Fielding came home. The bell 
of Westminster proclaimed the hour with deep-sounding tongue. Saul ascended 
the stairs quietly. He did not wish to disturb any one in the house — least of all, 
Jane, if she were asleep. “Although,” he thought, dwelling in love upon her, 
“ the dear woman wakes at my lightest footfall.” He crept into the room softly, 
and paused, with hand upraised and listening ear. “ She is asleep,” he whis- 
pered, gladly. He stepped gently to the bedside, and laid his hand lightly upon 
the pillow ; it was cold. “Jane ! ” he cried, with a sudden fear upon him. His 
hand traveled over the bed ; it was empty. So strong a ti*embling took posses- 
sion of him that he could not stand, and he sank, almost powerless, on the bed. 
“ What is this ? ” he asked of himself. “Why is she not abed? Jane! Jane! 
Where are you ? ” Although he spoke in a tone scarcely above a whisper, every 
word he uttered sounded in the dark room like a knell, and seemed to come 
fcack to him charged with terrible meaning — as though some one else were 
speaking. “ Let me think,” he muttered, vaguely. “ How did I leave her? She 
was not angry with me. Her words were full of hope. She kissed me, and stood 
—there ! ” He looked toward the window, and saw the outlines of her face in 
the light — saw her eyes gazing tenderly, lovingly, upon him. He knew that 
what he saw was but a trick of the imagination ; but he moved toward the light, 
and clasped a shadow in his arms. “ The world is dark without you, dear wo- 
man ! ” he sobbed, with closed eyes, repeating almost the last words he had said 
to her. “ The world is dark without you ! Where are you? Have you left me?” 
The table shook beneath his hand, as he rested upon it to steady himself. But 
he could not control his agitation ; it mastered him. With trembling hands he 
struck a match and lit the lamp ; then saw with certainty that Jane was not in 
the room. Mechanically he took from the table a sheet of paper with writing 
upon it, which the light disclosed. “ Jane's writing,” he muttered, and then 
read : 

** Dear Love:— I have left you for your good—for mine. I had this in my mind when I 
spoke to you to-night. I have had it in my mind for a long time. It is the only s( cret I have 
ever had which you did not share. We have been so unfortunate in the past, and so clear a 
duty remains before us, that we should be undeserving of better fortune if we did not strive 
ourselves to better it. I rely implicitly upon your promise. Tear yourself away from this 
place, and begin a new life. As long as I live, not a day will pass without ray praying for a 
better fortune for you and for me to Him who sees all things, and who, my heart tells me, ap- 
proves of what I am doing now. Pray to Him also, dear love. He will hear you and pity. 
Kemember what is the greatest happiness that can fall to my lot, and remember that I shall 
not be unhappy-loving you and having you always in my thoughts— while I think that you 
are working toward a happier end. I have no fears in leaving you. I know how you will 
keep your promise— and you have said so much to-night to comfort mel I treasure your 
woi ds. They are balm to my. heart. 

“ I have taken service with a respectable family, who live a long way from here, and I have 
adopted an assumed name. The address I inclose is where you can write to me. You will cot, 
I know, seek to turn me from my purpose. I shall write to you to the care of Mrs. Naldret ; 
for the sake of George's friendship for you, she will receive the letters. Tell George. 


28 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE A2fD KISSES. 


“ Dear Love, good-bj'e ! All my prayers are with you. Let them and the memory of me 
sustain your heart ; as the consciousness of your love for me, and my faith In God’s goodness 

ill sustain mine. 

‘ • Till death, and after it, your own ** Janb.” 

lie read the letter twice — first with only a vague sense of its meaning, but the 
second time with a clearer understanding. Sobs came from his chest, tears came 
from his eyes, the hand that held the paper trembled as he read. He knew that 
she was right. But it was hard to bear — bitterly hard to bear. How lonely the 
room looked — how mean, and miserable, and desolate ! Faint as he was — for he 
had been standing in the cold streets for hours, playing with the waits, and noth- 
ing but a sup of water from a drinking-fountain had passed his lips — he had no 
consciousness of physical weakness. All his thoughts were of Jane, all his 
heart and soul and mind were charged with tenderness for his dear woman. 
He looked at the words “Dear Love,’^ until he heard her voice speaking them. 
He had no thought of following her; her happiness depended upon his obeying 
her, and he would obey her. He had resolved upon that immediately. But oh, 
if he could hold her in his embrace once more ! If he could hear her dear voice 
again! If, with her arms around him, he could tell her that he would be faithful 
to his promise I He dashed the tears from his eyes. “She is thinking of me 
now,” he sobbed ; “ she is awake and praying for me now ! All the suflering of 
our parting was hers. She took it all upon herself, dear soul ! She knew, and I 
did not; and her heart was bleeding while she shed the light of hope upon mine! 
What does she say here, dear soul, to lessen my pain ? ‘ You have said so much 
to-night to comfort me ! I treasure your words. They are a balm to my heart.* 
It is like her — it is like her, to write those words. She knew, dear woman, she 
knew, dear heart, that they would comfort me! But I want strength! 1 want 
strength ! ” His eyes traveled over the letter again, and again he read the words, 

‘ Pray to Him also, dear love. He will hear you and pity.’ Pressing the paper 
to his lips, Saul Fielding sank upon his knees, and bowed his head upou the 
bed. 


TOTTIE IS READY TO TEAR OLD BEN SPARROW LIMB FROM LIMB. 

As nearly all the persons with whom this history has to deal are almost in the 
same station of life, and live within a stone’s throw of each other, it is not a dif- 
ficult task for us to transport ourselves to the little parlor in the rear of old Ben 
Sparrow’s grocer’s shop, where Ben Sparrow himself is at present considering 
the mechanism of a curious and complicated piece of work, the separate parts 
of which are lying before him. Although the parlor and the shop adjoin each 
other, Ben Sparrow looks upon the parlor as being a long way off, like a country 
house, as a place where he can obtain repose from the cares of the counter and 
shelves. And it really is a snug, oozy retreat. 

Ben Sparrow came into the world exactly at midnight of the 21st of October, 
1805— a few hours after the battle of Trafalgar was fought and won— and the 
doubtful compliment was at once passed on the new arrival of being the very 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


29 


smallest baby that ever was seen. But then, women go into extremes in these 
matters, and their statements that this is the most beautiful baby in the world, 
and this the smallest, and this the chubbiest and this the darlingest must be taken 
with very large pinches of salt. On that occasion the very smallest baby in the 
world acted in precisely the same manner as he would have done if he had been 
the very largest baby in the world. Looking upon the world as his own especial 
dunghill (as we all of us do), he immediately began to crow, and sounded his 
trumpet with the weakest of lungs to show that he had made his appearance 
upon the stage. The sound of Westminster bells was ringing in his ears as he 
gathered up his little toes and legs and clinched his little fists with an air of say- 
ing. Come on! to his brothers and sisters in the profession; and in after-days he 
often declared jocosely that he perfectly well remembered hearing his first twelve 
o’clock proclaimed by the tongue of old Westminster. Between that time and 
this Ben Sparrow had grown from a very small baby to a very small man, and 
many eventful things had occurred to him. When he came to man’s estate — the 
only estate he ever came into — he entered into business as a grocer; married and 
lost his wife, who left behind her one child — a son, who had “gone wrong,” as 
the saying is, and whose place knew him no more. The “ ups and downs” of life 
are generally believed to be a very common experience; but they could scarcely 
have been so with Ben Sparrow — he had so very many downs, and so very few 
ups (if any) in the course of his career. Still, he managed to plod on somehow or 
other until the present time, when he and his granddaughter, Bessie Sparrow, 
whom you hove seen, and Tottie, a child of whom you have had a glimpse — after 
she had been put to bed by Bessie — are living together in the small house of 
which the grocer’s shop forms part. 

This short biography being concluded, we come upon Ben Sparrow sitting in 
his parlor contemplating the separate parts of the curious piece of work above 
referred to. The only other person in the room is Tottie; who is perched on a 
high chair, with a rail in front to prevent her making an attempt to walk in the 
air, and w’hose attention is divided between the old man and certain sweet things 
which are spread upon the table. Such as three large, fat figs — luscious young 
fellows — new, ripe and with so tempting an air about them as to make their de- 
struction appear inevitable. (Tottie is ready to act as executioner; her eager eyes 
attest that they would have short shrift with her.) Such as half a dozen or so 
sticks of cinnamon; not as fresh looking as the figs — being, indeed, rather 
wrinkled specimens of spice — but, notwithstanding their snuffy color, they have 
an inviting odor about them and tickle the nose tantalizingly. (Tottie would not 
say them nay, and is ready to devote them to destruction on the first word of 
command.) Such as a few dozen of plump dried currants of exquisite sweetness. 
(As Tottie well knows from experience of their fellows — not honestly come by; 
for, notwithstanding her tender years, Tottie has *a vice— as you shall presently 
see.) Such as two or three bunches of muscatel raisins— rich-looking, princes 
among grapes, with a bloom upon their skins which speaks eloquently of lus- 
cious juices within. (Tottie’s eyes wander to these, and her mouth waters, and 
her fingers wait but for the opportunity. If some kind fairy would but cry 
“ Shop ! ” now, and call for a quarter of a pound of brown sugar, or an ounce of 
tea — the best one-and-fourpenny — or a ha’porth of barley-sugar! But business is 


30 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSEl. 


Black, as Ben Sparrow will tell you— with a doleful shake of the head— and there 
appears no such fairy, in the form of a slattern with shoes down at heel, or of a 
bold-faced girl with her baby in her arms and with a blue handkerchief tied 
crosswise over her bosom, or of a gutter-student— capless, with straggling hair— or 
of a man of any age, vveak-eyed, with shaking limbs. No such fairy calls 



TOTTIE AND BEN SPARROW. 


‘‘Shop!” in Tottie’s interest, and taps the counter with the nimble penny.) 
Such as two whole halves (the prettiest of paradoxes) of candied lemon peel 
with such an appetizing fragrance oozing out of them, with such delicious patches 
of sugar elinging to their aJdermanic insides and outsides-pearls in mussels are 
valueless as a comparison-that the precious things of the world, such as dolls 
and boxes of wooden soldiers (would they were all so!), and oyster-sheUs ana 



BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


81 


pieces of brooken china to play at dinners and teas with, fade in the contempla* 
tion of them. (At least, such are Tottie's feelings as she looks and longs. Oh, 
for the fairy !) Such — to conclude with — as a few shreds of mace and a clove or 
two ; scarcely worth mentioning in the presence of their superiors. 

These delectable joys of life being spread upon the table immediately under 
Tottie’s nose, and Tottie’s attention being divided between them and their lawful 
owner, Ben Sparrow, it will not be difficult to see which of the two possessed 
the greater charms for her. A rapid glance at Ben Sparrow’s face, a lingering 
gaze upon fruit and spice, another rapid glance (with a slight reproach in it this 
time) at Ben Sparrow’s face, and, finding no benevolent intention there, a more 
fixed and longing gaze upon the treasures of the earth — thus it goes without a 
word on either side (the thoughts of each being so intensely engrossing), and 
thus it might have continued for goodness knows how long, but that Ben Spar- 
row, with a cheeiy laugh, taps Tottie’s cheek with his forefinger and cries, in a 
tone of satisfaction, 

“ Now I’ve got it! ” 

(Tottie wishes she had.) 

“ Now I’ve got it,” cries the old man again^ all complete.” 

Tottie shifts restlessly in her high chair. ^ 

“ And Tottie shall see me make it,” says Ben, with a beaming face, rubbing 
his hands and shifting the spice about — much the same as if they form pieces of 
a puzzle and he has found the key to it. “ Especially,” adds Ben, “^‘as Tottie will 
sit still, and won’t touch.” 

“ No, I never^ ” exclaims Tottie. 

This is Tottie’s oath, which she is much given to swearing when her honor 
is called into question. Tottie’s “No, I never! ” is, in her estimation, worth a 
volume of affidavits ; but it is much to be feared that her sense of moral obliga- 
tion is not of a high order. 

“And as Tottie’s a good little girl ” 

“Tottie’s a dood little girl ! ” 

There is no expression of doubt in the nods of the head with which Tottie 
strengthens this declaration. 

“ And ’ll sit still, she shall see me make it.” 

The good old fellow laughs. He does not seem to realize how difficult is the task 
he has set Tottie. To sit still, with these treasures in view ! Here an agonizing in- 
cident occurs. A small piece of candied sugar has become detached from one of 
the halves of lemon peel, and Ben Sparrow, with an air of abstraction, picks it 
up, and puts it — in his own mouth! Tottie watches him as he moves it about 
with his tongue, and her own waters as the sweet dissolves in her imagination. 
She knows the process as well as Ben, and appreciates it more, and she sighs 
when the candy is finally disposed of. 

“ You see, Tottie,” says Ben, taking her into his confidence, “business is very 
slack, and Christmas is coming, Tottie.” 

Tottie gives a nod of acquiescence. 

“So I think to myself” — another nod from Tottie; she also is thinking to her* 
■elf — “ if I can put something in the window that’ll make the people look at the 

figa— ” 


33 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND EISSE8. 


Here Tottie introduces an artful piece of diplomacy. 

“Tottie can spell fig,” she says, and proceeds to do it smilingly — ^‘F-I-G, fig.** 

*‘But Ben, intent upon his scheme, does not see the point of Tottie’s interrup- 
tion, and proceeds : 

— Something that’ll make ’em look at the figs, and the currants, and the rais- 
ins — something new and spicy ” (Ben laughs at this joke, and repeats it) — “some- 
thing new and spicy — perhaps it’ll wake ’em up, and bring ’em in here instead of 
going to another shop. For they want waking up, Tottie, they want waking up 
badly.” 

Solemn nods from Tottie proclaim the serious consideration she has given to 
the general sleepiness and indifference of Ben Sparrow’s customers. 

Ben Sparrow picks up a fat currant and contemplates it with as much interest 
as a geologist would contemplate a new fossil. Tottie’s eyes follow his move- 
ments ; she sits like Patience on a monument, and another sigh escapes her as Ben 
Sparrow (again abstractedly) puts the currant in his mouth and swallows it. Draw 
a veil mercifully over Tottie’s feelings. 

“It was in the middle of the night,” says Ben Sparrow, with all the impressive- 
ness demanded by the historical fact, “ that I first thought of making ME, and 
putting ME in the window to attract custom. I was a good deal puzzled about my 
legs, and my stomach got into my head, and I couldn’t get it out; but little by 
little all my limbs and every other part of me came to me until the idea was com- 
plete. And now we’ll try it — now we’ll set to work to make a man I And if 
you’re a good girl, and’ll sit still, yoii shall see ME made.” 

Tottie’s experience in literature is very limited — extending no farther, indeed, 
than b-a-t bat, c-a-t cat, r-a-t rat, d-i-g dig, f-i-g fig, p-i-g pig — and she knows noth- 
ing of the terrible story of Frankenstein; therefore she is hot at all frightened 
with the idea of seeing a man made, nor has she any fear that it will turn out to 
be a monster. On the contrary, if Ben Sparrow’s thoughts would only take a be- 
nevolent turn in the shape of a fig for Tottie, or a few plums for Tottie, or some 
candied sugar for Tottie, she would be prepared to enjoy the feat which Ben is 
about to perform as much as if it were the best bit of fun in the world. 

“Now, then,” commences Ben, with a whimsical glance at Tottie, who smiles 
back at him like a true diplomatist, “ I don’t know what part is generally made 

first, but perhaps it’ll be as Avell to commence with the stomach. Here it is 

here’s my stomach.” 

He takes one of the halves nf the candied lemon peel, and places it before him, 
Tound side up. 

“ There’s a little too much sugar in me,” he says, with a more whimsical glance 
than the first; “it’ll make me rather too heavy, I’m afraid. And besides, Tottie, 
it ain’t true to nature. My inside ain’t got such a coating as this.” 

He breaks a piece of candied sugar from the inside of his stomach, looks at 
Tottie, notices her wistful eyes, and gives it to her. She eats it eagerly, and so 
quickly as to cause amazement to Ben Sparrow, who says : 

“ You shouldn’t eat so fast, Tottie. Good little girls don’t eat so fast as that.” 

Tottie, with feminine duplicity, accepts this warning in an inverted sense, and 
cries, with her mouth full of sugar: 

“ Tottie’s a dood little girl I” as if indorsing a statement made by her grand- 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES* 


83 


father. But Tottie’s thoughts are not upon the good little girl; at the present 
moment she resembles a savage. She has tasted blood, and thirsts for more. 

*‘It’s a fatter stomach than mine,” proceeds Ben, laying his hand upon his 
stomagh of flesh, the stomach he came into the world with ; “ it’s rounder and 
plumper, and would fit the Lord Mayor or an alderman, but it’ll do, I dare say. 
Now for my neck.” 

He picks up the thickest piece of cinnamon, and measures it with his eye, 
breaking the stick in two. “ I mustn’t make my neck too long — nor too short — 
ai*d I take the thickest piece, Tottie, because it’s got to support my head. Like 
this.” He makes a hole in the end of the lemon peel and sticks the cinnamon 
im firmly. “Now to stick my head on, Tottie.” 

He selects the largest of the fat figs, and attaches it to his neck. “ What’s the 
m«xt thing? My eyes, to be sure. Currants.” Remarkably like eyes do they 
'look when they are inserted in the face of the fat fig. Then he takes a clove for 
bis nose, and, making a . thin slit in the fig for his mouth, inserts an appropriate 
morsel of mace. All this being successfully accomplished, he holds himself up 
(as far as he goes) for his own and Tottie’s inspection and approval. Tottie claps 
her hands and laughs, but subsides into a quieter humor at a guilty thought that 
steals into her mind. She thinks what a delightful thing it would be to take her 
grandfather (as far as he goes) and eat him, bit by bit. 

“ I begin to look ship-shape,” observes Ben Sparrow, gazing admiringly at the 
unfinished effigy of himself. “ You see, Tottie, what the people want nowadays 
is novelty — something new, something they haven’t seen before. Give them that 
and you’re all right.” (Which vague generality appears to satisfy him.) “ Now, 
here it is — here’s novelty — here’s something they’ve never seen before ; and if 
this don’t bring custom, I don’t know what will.” 

Tottie gives a grave and silent assent; she cannot speak, for her mind is bent 
upon cannibalism. She is ready to tear the old man limb from limb. 

“But,” continues Ben Sparrow, unconscious of the horrible thought at work in 
the mind of the apparently innocent child before him, “ I must get along with 
myself, or I shall never be finished. I haven’t been in any battle that I know of, 
and I wasn’t born a cripple, so my limbs must be all right when I appear in pub- 
lic. Now for my arras. More cinnamon 1 I think I may call cinnamon my 
bones.” 

When two pieces of cinnamon are stuck into the sides of the candied lemon 
peel, they look so naked that he says : 

“ I must put sleeves on my arms.” 

And impales raisins upon them, and sticks five small slips of mace in each of 
the last raisins, which serve for fingers. 

“Now for my legs, and there I am. More cinnamon !” 

Two sticks of cinnamon stuck in the bottom of the candied stomach, and then 
clothed with raisins, form his legs, and there he is, complete. 

“I think I’ll do,” he says complacently. 

At this moment a voice calls “Shop!” and a fairy, in the shape of a shoeless, 
ragged girl, taps upon the counter. Ben Sparrow goes into the shop to serve, and 
Tottie is left alone with his effigy. Now, it has been mentioned above that Tottie 

has a vice, and this is it: she is afflicted, not with a raging tooth, but with a tooth 
2 


34 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


SO sweet as to weaken her moral sense, so to speak ; she is unable to resist temp- 
tation when it presents itself to her in the shape of sweetmeats or fruit, and her 
notions as to the sacredness of such-like property are so loose that (no one being 
by to see her do it) she helps herself. And yet it is a proof that she possesses a 
wakeful conscience, that she turns her back upon herself when she pilfers, as if she 
would wish to make herself believe that she is unconscious of what she is doing. 
Thus seeing, say, a bowl of currants near, and no person within sight, she W’U 
approach the bowl stealthily, and, turning her back to it, will put her hand be- 
hind her, and take a fistful, with an air of •"hinKing of something else all the 
while. And it is a proof that the moral obligation of her conscience is not entire- 
ly dormant, that, after the act is committed and enjoyed, she will, under the influ- 
ence of a human eye, instantly defend herself without being accused, by “ No, I 
never ! no, I never !” This express admission of guilt she can no more resist than 
she can resist the temptation itself. At the present time the sweet effigy of Ben 
Sparrow is lying within reach upon the table. Shutting her eyes, Tottie stretches 
out her hand, and plucking her grandfather's left leg bodily from his candied 
stomach, instantly devours it, cinnamon, raisins, and all — and has just made the 
last gulp, when Ben Sparrow, having served his customer, re-enters the parlor. 
He casts a puzzeled look at his dismembered effigy, and mutters : 

‘Weill if I didn't think I had made my two legs may I be sugared!” Which 
sweet oath is exactly appropriate to the occasion. Then he turns to Tottie, who 
is gazing unconsciously at vacancy, with a wonderfully intense expression in her 
eyes, and she immediately shakes her head piteously, and cries : 

“No, I never! no, I never !” 

Ben Sparrow, having his doubts aroused by this vehement asseveration of inno- 
cence, says, mournfully ; 

“ Oh, Tottie I Tottie ! I didn't think you'd do it ! To begin to eat me up like 
that!” 

But Tottie shakes her head still more vehemently, and desperately reiterates, 
“No, -I never! no, I never!” With the frightful consciousness that the proofs 
of her guilt are in her inside, and that she has only to be cut open for them to be 
produced. 

Ben Sparrow, with a grave face, makes himself another leg, moving himself, 
however, out of Tottie's reach with reproachful significance. An unexpected dif- 
ficulty occurs at this point. Being top-heavy, he can not balance himself upon 
his legs; but Ben is of an ingenious turn of mind, and he hits upon the expedi- 
ent of shoring himself up from behind with stout sticks of cinnamon. Then, set- 
ting himself up, he gazes at himself in admiration.' Tottie's eyes ai*e also fixed 
upon the effigy; it possesses a horrible fascination for her. 


HERE AND THERE ARE FORGET-ME-NOTS. 

All night long Saul Fielding kneels by the side of his bed, absorbed in the 
memory of the woman whom he loves, and who, out of her great love for him, 
has deserted him. At first his grief is so great that he cannot think coherently ; his 
mindis storm-tossed. But after a time the violence of his grief abates, and things be- 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


35 


gin to shape themselves in his mind. The night is cold, but he does not feel the 
winter’s chill. The wind sighs and moans at his window, but he dees not hear it. 
As k leaves his lattice, and travels through the courts and streets, it bears upon 
its wings the influence of the grief it has witnessed, and it sobs to the stone 
walls, “ There kneels a man in woe ! ” It gathers strength when it leaves the 
packed thoroughfares, which, huddled together like a crowd of beggars, seem to 
seek warmth in close contact, and becomes angry when it reaches the wide 
streets, angrier still when it reaches the woods, where the trees tremble as it 
rushes past them. Say that it rushes onward and still onward, and that we have 
the power to follow it — that we see it merge into other winds and become furious 
— that we see its fury die away — that we leave the winter and the night behind 
us — that we travel ahead of it, over lands and seas, until we come to where spring 
and daylight are — that we travel onward and still onward, until noon and spring 
are passed, and we come to where bright sun and summer are. Where are we? 
Thousands upon thousands of miles away; but the time is the same, for as the 
warm wind kisses us we look back and see the man kneeling by the side of his 
bed. It is winter and night, and there kneels the man. It is summer and day, 
and here is another man among the mountains lying on the earth, looking at the 
clouds. And the time is the same. The thoughts of both these men are in the 
past. What connection can there be between these two, in such adverse places, 
seasons and circumstances? They have never touched hands. What links can 
bind them ? Heart-links ? Perhaps. It would not be so strange. It may be at this 
present moment, in some distant part of the world of which we have only read 
or dreamed, links in your life’s chain and mine are being forged by persons whose 
faces we have never seen. 

He is desolate. Jane has gone from him. She has left words of comfort be- 
hind her, but he may never look upon her face again. She has given him a task 
to fuIfilL “ If I have done my duty by you,” she said, “and I have tried to do 
it, it remains for you to do your duty by me.” He will be true to his dear wo- 
man, as she has been to him. He will strive to perform the task she has set before 
him — he will strive to find a way — ay, if he dies in the attempt. He will consid- 
er presently how he shall commence. In the mean time he must think of Jane. 

He falls into a doze, thinking of her, and with her in his mind the past comes 
to him. The aspirations which filled his boyish mind — his love for books — his 
desire to rise above his surroundings — his reasonings upon the relation of this 
and that, and his theoretical conclusions, which were to suddenly, divert the 
common custom of things, as if a creation could in a moment crumble into dust 
the growth of centuries — his delight when he found that lie was an orator, and 
could move an assembly of men to various passions — his meeting with Jane — 
He went no further. The memory of her as she was when he first saw her, a 
bright flower — ah, how bright, how trustful and womanly! — stopped further 
thought, and for a time no vision appears of his downfall, his weakness, his dis- 
grace, his sinking lower, lower, until he is almost a lost man. It comes to him 
presently with all its shame; but when he wakes, the chaos of images in his 
mind resolves itself into this : his life is before him, full of weeds, like an un- 
tended garden, but here and there are forget-iae»nots, and each one bears the 
name of Jane. 


36 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


The morning light steals in upon his vigil, and still he has not decided how or 
in what way he shall commence his new life. In truth, he is powerless. He has 
no weapons to fight with. His old confidence in himself, his pride, his strength 
of will, are covered with the rust of long weakness. Kising from his knees, he 
breaks the crust of ice upon the water in his pitcher, and bathes his face. The 
cold water seems to bring strength to him. He looks about the room, and every 
thing within the poor walls speaks of Jane’s love and care for him. The fire is 
laid with the last few sticks of wood and the last few lumps of coal. The old 
kettle, filled, is on the hob. The last pinch of tea is in the cup ; the remains of 
the loaf are on the table. Not a thing is forgotten. “Dear woman!” he 
murmurs. “It is like you!” He paces the room slowly, striving to think of 
some path by which he can obtain a home for Jane, and thereby win her and re- 
ward her. It is useless, he knows, to seek for work here in the neighborhood 
where he is known. He is known too well, and has sunk too low. Who would 
believe in his profession of amendment? Besides, what is the use of trying? 
JBe is of the same trade as George Naldret, and even George, a better workman 
than he, has resolved to leave and try his fortune elsewhere, because of the dif- 
ficulty he finds in saving sufficient money to buy a home for the girl he desires 
to marry. Even George is compelled to emigrate — He stops suddenly in the 
middle of the room, and draws himself up with a spasmodic motion. Jane’s 
words come to him: “It is a blessing for many that these new lands have been 
discovered. A man can commence a new life there, without being crushed by 
the misfortunes or faults of the past, if he be earnest enough to acquire strength. 
It might be a blessing to you.” “A new life in a new land ! ” he says aloud. 
“All the weakness and shame of the past wiped away because they will not be 
known to those around me. I should feel myself a new man — a better man; my 
strength, my courage would come back to me ! ” So strong an impression does 
the inspiration of the thought make upon him that he trembles with excitement. 
But can he leave Jane — leave the country which holds her dear form? Yes, he 
can — he will; the memory of her will sustain him; and she will approve, as in- 
deed she has done already by her words. “It is the only way! ” he cries; “the 
only way ! ” Thus far he thinks, and then sinks into a chair despairing. The 
means ! How can he obtain the means? He has not a shilling in the woidd, nor 
any friends powerful enough to help him. Heaven’s gate seems to be more 
easily accessible to him than this new land across the seas. But he does not al- 
low himself to sink into the lowest depth of despondency. Jane stands before 
him; her words are with him; like wine they revive his fainting soul. “Come, 
Saul,” he cries aloud to himself, resolutely. “Come — think! Cast aside your 
weakness. Be your old self once more ! ” These words, spoken to himself as 
though they came from the lips of a strong man, sound like a trumpet in his ears 
and really strengthen him. Again he thinks of George Naldret. “Mr. Million 
gave him his passage ticket,” he says; “would Mr. Million give me one?” No 
sooner has he uttered the words than the current of his thoughts is diverted, and 
he finds himself speculating upon the cause of Mr. Million’s generosity to George. 
Friendship? No, it can scarcely be that. There can be no friendship between 
George and Mr. Million. Kindness? Perhaps; and yet he has never heard that 
Mr. Million was noted for the performance of kindly actions. These considera- 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


37 


tions trouble him somewhat on George’s account, although he can not explain to 
himself why the fact of Mr. Million giving George a free passage ticket to the 
other end of the world should cause him uneasiness. “I wonder how it came 
about/’ bethinks. “I never heard of George speak of emigrating until the 
ticket was promised to him. At all events, if George has any claim upon him I 
have none. But Mr. Million is a public man, and may be in favor of emigration. 
It will cost him but little to assist me. There are government emigration ships 
which take a man over for almost nothing, I have heard. A line of recommenda- 
tion from Mr. Million in my favor would be sufficient, perhaps. I will try; I will 
try. If I knew a prayer that would make my appeal successful, I would say it,” 


BATTLEDOOE AND SHUTTLECOCK. 

nn a public man, James Million, Esquire, M. P. for Brewingham, felt it neces- 
sary to his position to spend two or three hours in his study every morning, and 
to “make-believe” to be busy. Had you asked James Million what he was, he 
would not have told you that he was a brewer or a capitalist, but would have re- 
plied, briefly and emphatically, “A public man, sir.” Now, to be a public man 
you must have a, shuttlecock; and whether it was that Mr. Million had a real 
sympathy for the institution known as the workingman, or because the working- 
man drank large quantities of Million’s Entire and Million’s Treble X, it is certain 
that he set up the workingman as his shuttlecock ; and it is quite as certain that 
he set it without in the least understanding it, being, indeed, a most unskill- 
ful player at any game in which his own interests were not directly involved. 
The game o£ battledoor and shuttlecock is a popular one with us from childhood 
upward, but 1 am not aware that any close observer and noter of curious things 
has ever calculated how many shuttlecocks an ordinary battledoor will outlast. 
Popular as the game is with children, it is more popular with public men, who, 
battledoor in hand, are apt — in their enthusiasm and love for the game — to run 
into exceedingly wild extremes when a new shuttlecock, with spick and span 
new feathers, is cast among them. Such a superabundance of energy do they 
in their zeal impart into the game that they often sorely bruise the poor shuttle- 
cock, and so knock it out of all shape and proportion that the members of its 
family find it impossible to recognize it. How many a poor shuttlecock have you 
and I seen on its last legs, as one might say, in a desperate condition from being 
much hit, and much missed, and much trodden into the mud, and with feathers 
that would rival those of a roupy old hen in the last stage of dissolution; and 
looking upon it in melancholy mood, may we not be excused for dwelling sadly 
upon the time (but yesterday!) when its feathers were new and crimson-tipped, 
and when it proudly took its first flight in the air? 

In appearance, James Million, the eminent brewer, was a small, flabby man, 
with a white face on which the flesh hung loosely. It had been said of him that 
his morals were as flabby as his flesh — but this was invented by a detractor, and 
if it conveyed any reproach it was at best a hazy one. He had a curious trick 
with his eyes. They were sound and of the first water— not a flaw in them, as 


3S 


BBEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


diamond merchants say ; but whenever there was presented for his contempla- 
tion or consideration a question of a perplexing or disagreeable nature, he would 
close one of his eyes and look at it with the other. It was a favorite habit with 
him to walk along the streets so, with one eye closed; and a man who set himself 
up for a satirist or a wag, or both, once said, “Jimmy Million is so moral that he 
doesn’t like to look on the wickedness of the world; so he shuts one eye, and 
can only see half of it, and thereby saves himself half the pain.” 

To James Million, as he sits in his study, comes a servant, who, after due tap- 
ping at the door, so as not to disturb the ruminations of the legislator, announces 
a man in the passage who desires to see Mr. Million. 

•“Name?” asks Mr. Million. 

*‘Saul Fielding,” answers the servant, and adds, “but he says he does not 
think you know him.” 

What does he look like? ” 

The servant hesitates; he has not made up his mind. Although Saul Fielding 
is shabbily dressed he is clean, and Jane’s watchful care has made his wardrobe 
(the whole of which he wears on his back) seem better than it is. Besides, there 
is “an air” about Saul Fielding which prevents him being placed, in the serv- 
ant’s mind, on the lowest rung of vagabondism. 

“Is he a poor man? Is he a working man?” demands Mr. Million, impa- 
tiently. 

“ He looks like it, sir,” replies the servant, not committing himself distinctly 
to either statement. 

Mr. Million has an idle hour before him, which he is not disinclined to devote 
"to the working-man question, so he bids the servant admit the visitor. 

“ Wait a minute,” says Mr. Million to Saul Field’ng as he enters the room. 
Mr. Million evidently has found some very knotty problem in the papers before 
him, for he bends over them with knitted brows and studious face, and shifts 
them about, and makes notes on other pieces of paper, and mutters “ Pish! ” and 
“ Pshaw! ” and “ Very true ! ” and “ This must be seen to ! ” with many remarks 
indicative of the engrossing nature of the subject which engages his attention. 
After a sufficient exhibition of this by-play — which, doubtless, impresses his vis- 
itor with a proper idea of his importance, and of the immense interest he takes in 
public matters — he pushes the papers aside with a weary air and looks up, with 
one eye closed and one eye open. What he sees before him does not seem to af- 
ford him any comfort; for it is a strange thing with public players of battledoor 
and shuttlecock that although they have, in theory, a high respect for their shut- 
tlecoeks, they have, in absolute fact, a very strong distaste for them. Seeing 
that he is expected to speak, Saul Fielding commences; he is at no loss for 
w ords, but he speaks more slowly than usual, in consequence of the heavy stake 
he has in the interview. 

“I have ventured to call upon you, sir,” he says, “in the hope that you will 
take some interest in my story, and that you will extend a helping hand to a poor 
man.” 

Somewhat fretfully — for, careful as he strives to be, Saul Fielding’has been un- 
wise in his introduction, which might be construed into an appeal for alms- 
somewhat fretfully, then, Mr. Million interposes with— 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


39 


“ A working-man?” 

I hope I may call myself so— although, strictly speaking, I have done but 
little work for a long time.” 



“ NOT ABLE TO GET WORK, EH ? ” 


Air. Alillion gazes with curiosity at his visitor, and asks, in a self-complacent, 
insolent tone, as if he knows all about it, 

” Not able to get work, eh ? ” 

“ I have not been able to get it, sir.” 




40 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


“ But quite willing to do it if you could get it? ” 

“ Quite willing, sir ; more than willing — thankful.” 

Saul Fielding knows that already he is beginning to lose ground, but his voice 
is even more respectful and humble than at first — although the very nature of 
the man causes him to speak with a certain confidence and independence which 
is eminently offensive to the delicate ears of the friend of the working-man, 

“ Of course 1” exclaims Mr. Million, triumphantly and disdainfully. “The old 
cry! Ikriewitl The old cry! I suppose you will say presently that there is 
not room for all, and that there are numbers of men who are in the same position 
as yourself — willing to work, unable to obtain it ? ” 

Saul Fielding makes no reply; words are rushing to his tongue, but he does 
not utter them. But Mr. Million insists upon being answered, and repeats what 
he has said in such a manner and tone that Saul cannot escape. 

“ I think, sir, that there are many men who are forced to be idle against their 
will : that seems to be a necessity in all countries where population increases so 
fast as ours does. But I don’t complain of that.” 

“Oh!” cries Mr. Million, opening both his eyes very wide indeed. “You 
don’t complain of that! You are one of those glib speakers, I have no doubt, 
who foment dissatisfaction among the working classes; who tell them that they 
are down-trodden and oppressed, and that masters are fattening upon them ! I 
should not be surprised to hear that you are a free-thinker.” 

“ No, sir, I am not that,” urges Saul Fielding, exquisitely distressed at the un- 
promising turn tt:e interview has taken ; “ Nor, indeed, have I anything to com- 
plain of myself. I am too crushed and broken down, as you may see.” 

“But if you were not so,” persists Mr. Million, growing harder as Saul grows 
humbler, “if you were in regular work, and in receipt of regular wages, it would 
be different with you — eh ? You would have something to comphtin of then, 
doubtle'^s. You would say pretty loudly that the working-man is under- 
paid, and you would do your best to fan the fiame of discontent kept up 
by a few grumblers and idlers. You would do this — eh? Come, come,” he adds, 
haughtilj’-, seeing that Saul Fielding does not wish to answer; “you .are here 
upon a begging-petition, you know. Don’t you think it will be best to answer 
my questions?” 

“ What is it you wish me to answer, sir? ” asks Saul Fielding, sorrowfully. 

“ The question of wages. I want to ascertain whether you are one of those who 
think the working classes are underpaid.” 

Saul Fielding pauses for a moment; and in that brief time determines to be 
true to himself. “Jane would not have me do otherwise,” he thinks. 

“ I think, sir,” he says, firmly and respectfully, “ that the working classes — by 
which I mean all in the land who have to work with their hands for daily bread — 
do not receive, as things go, a fair equivalent for their work. Their wages are 
not sufficient. They seem to me to be framed upon a basis which makes the 
work of eking them out — so as to make both ends meet— a harder task than the 
toil by which they are earned. The working-man’s discontent does not spring 
from his work; he does that cheerfully, almost always. It springs out of the 
fact that the results of his work are not sufficient for comfort, and certainly not 
sufficient to dispel the terrible anxiety which hangs over the future, when he ia 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


41 


il! and unable to work, perhaps, or when he and his wife axe too old for 
work.” 

“ Oh, indeed ! ” exclaims Mr. Million ; “ you give him a wife.” 

Yes, sir; his life would be a burden indeed without a woman’s love.** 

Mr. Million stares loftily at Saul Fielding. 

^'And children, doxihtless? ” 

Happy he who has them! It is nature’s law, and no man can gainsay it.” 
The theme possesses a fascination for Saul Fielding, and he continues, warmly, 
**l put aside, as distinctly outrageous, all that is said of the folly and wickedness 
of poor people marrying and having large families. This very fact, which the 
theorilsts wax indignant over — theorists, mind you, who have wives and families 
fheinijiHelves, and who, by their arguments, lay down the monstrous proposition 
thaife nature works in the blood according to the length of a man’s purse — this 
veity fact has made England strong; had it been otherwise the nation would have 
i^een emasculated. Besides, you can’t set natural feeling to the tune of theory; 
nor, when a man’s individual happiness is concerned, can you induce him to be- 
lieve in the truth of general propositions which, being carried out in his own 
person as one of the units, would make his very existence hateful to him.” 

Mr. Million opens his eyes even wider than before; such language from the 
lips ot the ragged man before him is indeed astonishing. 

“ What more have you to say? ” he gasps. “ You will want property equally 
divided ” 

“ No, sir, indeed,” interrupts Saul Fielding, daring to feel indignant — even in 
the presence of so rich a man — at the suggestion. “ The man who makes hon- 
estly for himself is entitled to possess and enjoy. I am no socialist.” 

“ You would, at all events,” pursues Mr. Million, “ feed the working-man with 
a silver spoon? You would open the places of amusement for him on the Sab- 
bath?” 

I would open some places and shut others.” 

“What places, now ? ” 

“ The museums, the public galleries, I would give him every chance — ^he has 
a right to it — to elevate himself during the only leisure he has.” 

“ And in this way,” demands Mr. Million, severely, “ you would desecrate the 
Sabbath!” 

For the life of him Saul Fielding cannot help saying, 

“ A greater desecration than even that can be in your eyes takes place on the 
Sabbath, in places that are open in the name of the law.” 

“ You refer to — ” 

“ Public-houses. If they are allowed to be open what reasonable argument can 
be brought against the opening of places the good influence of which is univer- 
sally acknowledged ? It is the withholding of these just privileges that causes 
much discontent and ill feeling.” 

This is quite enough for Mr. Million. This man, ragged, penniless, has the ef- 
frontery to tell the rich brewer to his face that he would have the public pic- 
ture-galleries and museums of art opened on thp Sabbath-day, and that he would 
shut the public-houses. 3ii*. Million can And no words to express his indignation. 
He can only say, stiffly and coldly: 


42 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


*‘I have heard quito enough of your opinions, sir. Come to the point of your 
visit. You see" — ^pointing to the papers scattered about the table — that I am 
very busy.” 

“ I came, sir,” he says, sadly, “in the hope that, seeing my distress, you would 
not have been disinclined to assist me — not with money, sir,” he adds, swiftly, in 
answer to an impatient look of dissent from Mr. Million, “ but with your good 
word. But 1 am afraid that I have injured my cause by the expression of my 
opinions.” 

“In what way do you expect that I could aid you?” asks Mr. Million, care- 
lessly, as he settles himself to his papers. 

“ I have been especially unfortunate in my career, sir. As I told you, I am 
willing to work, but am unable to obtain it. If I could emigrate ; if I could get 
into a new country, where labor is scarce, things might be better for me.” 

The poor man is helpless at the rich man’s foot ; and the rich man plays with 
him, as a cat with a mouse. 

“ Well,” he says, “ emigrate. The country would be well rid of such as you,” 

Saul Fielding takes no notice of the insult. He is not to be turned aside from 
his purpose, although he knows full well that he has missed his mark. 

“I have no means, sir; I am poor and helpless.” 

“ How do you propose to eflect your object, then ? ” 

“ There are government emigrant ships which take men out, I have heard, for 
very little — for nothing almost. A line of recommendation from you would be 
sufficiently powerful, I thought, to obtain me a passage.” 

“ Doubtless, doubtless,” this with a smile ; “ but you are a man of some per- 
ception, and having observed how utterly 1 disagree with your opinions — which 
I consider abominable and mischievous to the last degree- you eau hardly expect 
me to give you the recommendation you ask for. May I ask, as you are a perfect 
stranger to me, for I have no recollection of you in any way, to what I am in- 
debted for the honor you have done me by choosing me to give you a good char- 
acter?” 

“ You are a public man, sir, and, I *have heard, a friend to the working-man. 
And as you had helped a friend of mine to emigrate by giving him a free passage 
in a ship that sails this week — ” 

“ Stop, stop, ^ you please, i help a friend of yours to emigrate by giving him 
a free passage ! 1 think you are mistaken.” 

“ If you say so, sir, I must be. But this is what George Naldret gave me to 
understand.” 

“ And pray, who is George Naldret? ” demands Mr. Million, haughtily; “ and 
what are Aw reasons for emigrating?” 

“ George Naldret,” returns Saul Fielding, in perplexity, “is almost the only 
friend I have in the world, and he is emigrating for the purpose of putting him, 
self into a position to marry more quickly than his prospects here will allow 
him.” 

“As you are introducing me,” says Mr. Million, with an air of supreme indif- 
ference, “to your iriends, perjiaps you would like also to introduce me to the 
youngdady— for -of course ” (with a sneer) “ she is a young iady-^he desires to 
marrvi” 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


43 


Her name is Sparrow— Bessie Sparrow, granddaughter to an old grocer." 

Mr. Million suddenly becomes interested, and pushes his papers aside, with an 
exclamation of anger. 

“ What name did you say ? ” 

“ Miss Bessie Sparrow.” 

The rich brewer ponders for a moment, evidently in no pleasant mood. Then 
suddenly rings a bell. A servant appears. 

“Is my son in the house?” 

“ Yes, sir. ” 

“Tell him to come to me instantly.” 

Saul Fielding waits gravely. Seemingly, he also has found new food for con- 
templation. Presently young Mr. Million appears. 

“You sent for me, sir.” 

“ Yes, James. Do you know this person ?” with a slight wave of the hand in 
the direction of Saul Fielding, as toward a thing of no consequence. Saul Field- 
ing knows that his mission has failed, but does not resent this contemptuous ref- 
erence to him. He stands, humble and watchful, before father and son. 

“ I have seen him,” says young Mr. Million, “and I should say he is not a desir- 
able person in this house.” 

“My opinion exactly. Yet, influenced by some cock-and-a-bull story, he comes 
here soliciting my assistance to enable him to emigrate. The country would be 
well rid of him, I am sure ; but of course it is out of my power to give such a 
person a good character to the emigration commissioners.” 

“Out of any body’s power, I should say,” assents young Mr. Million, 'gayly. 
“To what cock-and-a-bull story do you refer ? ” 

“ He tells me — which is news to me — that I have given a free passage ticket to 
a friend of his, George — George — what did you say ? ” 

“ George Naldret, sir.” Saul Fielding supplies the name in a manner perfectly 
respectful. 

“ Ah — George Naldret. Such a statement is in itself, of course, a falsehood. 
Even if I knew George Naldret, which I do not, and desired to assist him, 
which I do not, the fact of his being engaged to be married to any one of the 
name of Sparrow — a name which means disgrace in our firm, as you are aware — 
would be sufiicient for me not do so.” 

Young Mr. Million steals a look at Saul Fielding, whose face, however is a 
mask; and in a hesitating voice says: “I think I can explain the matter; but 
it is not necessary for this person to remain. You do not know, perhaps, 
that he was the chief mover in a strike, a few years ago, which threatened to do 
much mischief. 

“I am not surprised to hear it,” says the rich brewer; the opinions he has ex- 
pressed have prepared me for some such statement concerning' him. He would 
desecrate the Sabbath-day by opening museums and picture-galleries, and he 
would curtail the liberty of the subject by closing the public-houses, and depriv- 
ing the working-man of his beer! Monstrous! monstrous! He has nothing to 
say for himself, I suppose.” 

“No, sir,” answers Saul Fielding, raising his head, and looking steadily at 
young Mr. Million, “except that I believed in the truth of what I told you, and 


44 


ERKAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


that I don’t know whether I am sorry or glad that I made the application to 
you.” 

The rich brewer has already touched the bell, and the servant comes into 
the room. 

“ Show this person to the door,” Mr. Million says, haughtily ; “ and if he 
comes again send for a policeman. lie is a dangerous character.” 

Saul Fielding’s lips wreathe disdainfully, but he walks out of the room, and out 
of the house, without a word of reinonidrance. This chance has slipped from 
him. Where next shall he turn? He walks slowly onward until he i* clear of 
the rich brewer’s house, and then stops, casting uncertain looks about him. As a 
sense of his utter helplessness comes upon him, a young woman brushes pa^t 
him without seeing him. He looks up. Bessie Sparrow ! She is walking quickly, 
and seems to see nothing — seems to wish to see nothing. Without any distinct 
purpose in his mind, but impelled by an uncontrollable, undefinable impulse, 
Saul Fielding turns and follows her. A gasp of pain escapes him as he sees 
her pause before Mr. Million’s house. She rings the bell, and the door is opened. 
She hands the servant a letter, and the next moment she is in the house, shut 
from Saul Fielding’s view. The terror that comes upon him is so great that the 
street and the sky swim before his eyes, and he clings to a lamp-post for sup- 
port. 

“ Qh, George I ” he groans. “ Oh, my friend I How will you bear this ? Good 
Go'd ! what bitterness there is in life even for those who have not fallen as I have 
douel ” 


tottie’s dream. 

When Tottie was put to bed, it was no wonder that she was haunted by the 
sweet effigy of old Ben Sparrow, and that his stomach of candied lemon peel, 
and his head of rich figs and currants, presented themselves to her in the most 
tempting shapes and forms her warm imagination could devise. As she lay in 
bed, looking at the rush-light in the wash-hand basin, the effigy appeared bit by 
bit in front of the basin until it was complete, and when it winked one of its 
currant eyes at her — as it actually did — the light of the candle threw a halo of 
glory over the form. Her eyes wandering to the mantle-shelf, she saw the 
effigy come out of the wall and stand in the middle of the shelf ; and turning to 
the table, it rose from beneath it, and sat comfortably down, with its legs of cin- 
namon and raisins tucked under it like a tailor. When she closed her eyes she 
saw it loom in the center of dilating rainbow circles, and in the center of dark- 
colored disks, which as they swelled to larger proportions, assumed bright bor- 
derings of color, for the express purpose of setting off more vividly the attrac- 
tion of the figure. Opening her eyes drowsily, she saw the old man come down 
khe chimney and vanish in the grate, and as he disappeared, down the chimney 
he came again, and continued thus to repeat himself, as it were, as if he were a 
regiment under full marching orders. Whichever way, indeed, Tottie’s eyes 
turned, she saw him, until the room was full of him and his sweetness, and 
with his multiplied image in her mind she fell asleep. 


45 


BftEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 

No wonder that she dreamed of him. Tottie and Bessie slept in the same 
room, and Tottie dreamed that long after she fell asleep — it must have been long 
after, for Bessie was in bed — she woke up suddenly. There she was, lying in 
bed, wide awake, in the middle of the night. The room was dark, and she could 
not see anything, but she could hear Bessie’s soft breathing. She was not fright- 
ened, as she usually was in the dark, for her attention was completely engrossed 
by one feeling. A frightful craving was upon her, which every moment grew 
stronger and stronger. This craving had something horrible in it, which, how- 
ever, slie did not quite realize. In the next room slept old Ben Sparrow, who, 
according to the fancy of her dream, was not made of blood and flesh and bone, 
but of lemon-peel, fig and currants and raisins. All the sweet things in the shop 
had been employed in the manufacture, and there they lay embodied in him. 

Tottie knew nothing of theology; knew nothing of the value of her soul, 
which, without a moment’s hesitation, she would have bartered for figs and 
candied lemon peel. And there the delicious things lay, in the very next room. 
If she could only get there — perhaps he would not miss an arm or a leg. But to 
eat the old man who was so kind to her! She had a dim consciousness of the 
wickedness of the wish, but she could not rid herself of it. Thought Tottie, 
“ He won’t know, if he’s asleep, and perhaps it won’t hurt him. I know it would 
do me good.” Her mouth watered, her eyes glistened, her fingers twitched to be 
at him, her stomach cried out to her. She could not withstand the temptation. 
Slowly and tremblingly she crept out of bed, and groped along the ground toward 
the door. Bessie was asleep. Everybody was asleep. The house was very quiet. 
Everything favored the accomplishment of the horrible deed. “Nobody will 
know',” thought Tottie. Thoroughly engrossed in her desperate cannibalistic 
purpose, and with her teeth grating against each other, Tottie turned the handle 
of the door and opened it; but she looked into the dark passage Ben Sparrow’s 
door opened, and a sudden flood of light poured upon her. It so dazzled her 
aand terrified her, that she fled back to her bed on all fours, and scrambled 
lupon it with a beating heart, and a face as white as a ghost’s. Sitting there glar- 
ing at the door, which she had left partly open in her fright, she saw the light 
cteal into the room, and, flying in the midst of it, old Ben Sparrow. He was not 
fifuite as large as liie, but he was ever so many times more sweet and delicious- 
looking. As old Ben Sparrow appeared, the room became as light as day, and 
Tottie noticed how rich and lucious were the gigantic fig which formed his head, 
the candied lemon peel which formed his stomach, the raisins which clothed his 
legs and arms; and as for the ripeness of his dark, beady, fruity eyes, there w'as 
no form of thought that could truly express the temptation that lay in them. 
Ben Sparrow hovered in the air for a few moments, and then steadied himself as 
it were; he stood bolt ujfright, and, treading upon nothing, advanced slowly and 
solemnly, putting out one leg carefully, and setting it down firmly upon nothing 
before he could make up his mind to move the other. In this manner he ap- 
proached Tottie, and sat down on her bed. For a little wdiile Tottie was too 
frightened to speak. She held her breath and waited with closed lips for him to 
say something. But as grandfather did not move or speak her courage gradual- 
ly returned, and with it her craving for some of him. She became hungrier than 
the most unfortunate church-mouse that ever breathed ; her rapacious longing 


40 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 

criuid only be satisfied in one way. Timorously she reached out her hand toward 
his face; he did not stir. Toward his eyes; he did not wink. Her finger 
touched his eye; it did not quiver — and out it came, and was in her hand ! Her 



TOTTIE’S DEEAM. 


heart throbbed with fearful ecstasy, as with averted head she put the terrible 
morsel in her mouth. It was delicious. She chewed it and swallowed it with 
infinite relish, and when it was gone thirsted for its fellow. She looked timidly 
at the old man. There was a queer expression in his fig face, which the loss of 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


47 


one of his eyes had doubtless imparted to it. “ It doesn’t seem to hurt him,” 
thought Tottie. Her eager fingers were soon close to the remaining eye, and out 
that came, and was disposed of in like manner. Tottie certainly never knew 
how good Ben Sparrow was until the present time. She had always loved him— 
but never so much as now. The eyeless face had a mournful expression upon it, 
and seemed to say, sadly, “Hadn’t you better take me next?” Tottie clutched it 
desperately. It wagged at her, and from its mace lips a murmur seemed to issue, 
“Oh, Tottie! Tottie! To serve me like this!” But Tottie was ravenous. No 
fear of consequences could stop her, now that she had tasted him and found 
how sweet he was. She shut her eyes nevertheless, as, in the execution of her 
murderous purpose, she tugged at his head, which, when she had torn from his 
body, she ate bit by bit with a rare and fearful enjoyment. When she looked 
again at the headless figure of the old man one of the legs moved briskly and 
held itself out to her with an air of “ Me next ! ” in the action. But Tottie, hun- 
gering for the lemon-peel stomach, disregarded the invitation. It was difficult to 
get the stomach off, it was so tightly fixed to its legs. When she succeeded the 
arms came with it, and she broke them off short at the shoulder-blade, and 
thought she heard a groan as she performed the cruel operation. But her heart 
was hardened, and she continued her feast without remorse. How delicious it 
was! She was a long time disposing of it, for it was very large ; but at length it 
was all eaten and not a piece of candied sugar was left. As she sucked her 
fingers with the delight of a savage, a sense of the wickedness of what she had 
done came upon her. Her grandfather, who had always been so kind to 
her! She began to tremble and cry. But the arms and legs remained. They 
mmt be eaten. Something dreadful would be done to her if they were discov- 
ered in her bed; so with feverish haste she devoured the limbs. And now not a 
trace of the old man remained. She had devoured him from head to foot. She 
would never see him again — never, never! How dreadful the table looked with 
him not on it! How Tottie wished she hadn’t done it! She was appalled at the 
contemplation of her guilt, and by the thought of how she would be punished if 
she were found out. In the midst of these fears the light in the room vanished, 
and oblivion fell upon Tottie in the darkness that followed* 


•I CAN SE2 YOU NOW KISSING HER LITTLE TOES. 

The next day, being George’s last day at home, was a day of sorrow to all the 
humble persons interested in his career. He was to start for Liverpool by an 
early train on the following morning, and was to pass his last evening at Ben 
Sparrow’s, with the old man, and Bessie and Tottie, and his mother and father. 
He had decided to bid Bessie good-by in her grandfather’s house. Bessie was for 
sitting up all night, but he said, gently, 

“ 1 think, Bessie, that mother would like to have me all to herself the last hour 
or two. Y ou know what mothers are ! By-and-by, heart’s treasure, you wi!l have 
the first claim on me; but now mother looks upon me as all her own, and it will 
comfort her heart, dear soul, to let it be as I say.” _ > . 


48 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


There were tears in George’s eyes as he looked down upon the face of his 
darling, and his heart almost fainted within him at the thought of parting from 
her. And, “Do you love me, Bess?” he asked for the thousandth time. 

“With all my heart and soul,” replied Bessie, pressing him in her arms. And 
so, with his head bowed down to hers, they remained in silent communion for 
many minutes. 

They were sitting in Ben Sparrow’s parlor, and the old man had left the young 
people by themselves, finding occupation in his shop, in the contemplation of his 
effigy and in weighing up quarters of a pound of sugar. There was a woful look 
in Ben Sparrow’s face as he stood behind his counter; times were hard with him 
and his till was empty. 

“Bes«j darling,” said George, waking up from his dream. She raised her tear- 
ful eyes to his. He kissed them. “As I kiss away your tears now, my dear, so I 
will try to take sorrow and trouble from you when we commence our new life.’' 

“I know it, George; I know it,” she said, and cried the more. 

“ But that is not what I was going to say. I was going to say this. Listen to 
me, dearest; if it were not for you I shouldn’t go; if it were not for you I should 
stay at home and be content. For I love home, I love the dear old land, I love 
mother and father, and the old black cat, and the little house I was born in. 
And it’s because of you that lam tearing myself from these dear things. I am 
going to earn money enough to make a home for you and me; to make you more 
quickly all my own, all my own! How my heart will yearn for you, dear, when 
I am over the seas! But it will not be for long; I will work and save, and come 
back soon, and then, my darling, then — ” The tenderness of his tone, and the 
tenderness there was in the silence that followed, were a fitter and more expres- 
sive conclusion to the sentence than words could have made. “ I shall say when 
I am in the ship, I am here for Bessie’s sake. When I am among strangers I 
shall think of you, and think, if I endure any hardship, that I endure it for my 
darling — and that will soften it and make it sweet; it will, my dear! I shall not 
be able to sleep very much, Bess, and that will give me all the more hours to 
work — for you, my darling, for you ! See here, heart’s treasure ; here is the purse 
you worked for me, around my neck. It shall never leave me — it rests upon my 
heart. The pretty little beads ! How I love them ! I shall kiss every piece of 
gold I put in it, and shall think I am kissing you as I do now, dear, dearest, best! 
I shall live in the future. The time will soon pass, and as the ship comes 
back, with me in it, and with my Bessie’s purse filled with chairs and tables, and 
pots and pans, I shall see my little girl wailing for me, thinking of me, longing 
to have me in her arms, as I long to have her in mine. And then, when I do 
come, and you start up from your chair as I open the door — Think of that mo- 
ment, Bess — think of it! ” 

“ Oh, George, George, you make me happy ! ” 

And in such tender words they passed the next hour together, until George 
tore himself away to look after some tools which he was to take with him, to 
coin chairs and tables and pots and pans with. But if he did not wish his tools 
to rust it behooved him not to bring them too close to his eyes, for his eyelashes 
were dewy with tears. 

Now, late as it was in the day for such common folk as ours, Tottie had not yei 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


49 


made her appearance down stairs. The first in the morning to get np in the 
house was old Ben Sparrow ; and while he was taking down his shutters and 
sweeping his shop and setting it in order, Bessie rose and dressed and prepared 
for breakfast. Then, when breakfast was nearly ready, Bessie would go up stairs 
to dress and wash Tottie. But on this particular morning, on going to the little 
girl’s bedside, Tottie cried and sobbed and shammed headache, and, as Tottie was 
not usually a lie-abed, Bessie thought it would do the child good to let her rest. 
And besides — being as cunning as the rest of her sex — Bessie was the more in- 
clined to humor Tottie’s whim, because she knew that George would be sure to 
drop in early; and if Tottie were out of the way she and her lover could have 
the parlor all to themselves. George being gone, however, there was no longer 
any reason for Tottie keeping her bed ; so Bessie washed and dressed the child, 
and was surprised, when taking her hand to lead her down stairs, to see Tottie 
shrink back and sob and cry that she didn’t want to go. 

“ Come, be a good child, Tottie,” said Bessie ; “ grandfather’s down stairs, and 
he wants to play with you.” 

At this Tottie sobbed and sobbed, and shook her head vehemently. She knew 
very well that it was impossible for Ben Sparrow to be down stairs, for had she 
not eaten him in the night — every bone of him? She was morally convinced that 
there was not a bit of him left. Grandfather play with herf He would never 
play with her any more ; she had done for him ! Her fears were so great that 
she fancied she could feel him stirring inside of her. But although she was re- 
bellious she was weak; and so, shutting her eyes tight, she went into the parlor 
with Bessie. Then she ran tremblingly into a corner, and stood with her face to 
the wall and her pinafore over her head; and there Bessie, having more pressing 
cares upon her just then, left her. When Tottie, therefore, heard the old man’s 
voice calling to her, she sobbed, “No, I never ! No, I never ! ” and was ready to 
sink through the floor in her fright; and when the old man lifted her in his arms 
to kiss her it was a long time before she could muster sufficient courage to open 
her eyes, and feel his face and his arms and his legs to satisfy herself that he was 
really real. And even after that— as if she could not believe the evidence of her 
senses — she crept toward him at intervals and touched him and pinched his legs, 
to make assurance doubly sure. 

Ben Sparrow found it hard work to be playful to-day, and Tottie had most of 
her time to herself. If the anxiety depicted on his face were any criterion, his 
special cares and sorrows must have been of an overwhelming nature. In the 
afternoon young Mr. Million came in — spruce and dandified and handsome as 
usual. The young gentleman was not an unfrequent visitor at the little grocer’s 
shop, and would often pop in and chat for an hour with Ben Sparrow ; he would 
sit down in the back parlor in the most affable manner, and chat and laugh as if 
they were equals. Bessie was not at home when he came this afternoon, and he 
seemed a little disappointed ; but he stopped and chatted, for all that, and when 
he went away the old grocer brightened, and his face looked as if a load were 
lifted from his heart. . His brighter mood met with no response from Bessie when 
she came in shortly afterwaird. Some new trouble seemed to have come on her 
since the morning— some new grief to which she hardly dared give expression. 
She had been stabbed by a few presumably chance and careless words spoken by 


50 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


a neighbor — need it be told that this neighbor was a woman ? No weapon can be 
keener than a woman’s tongue, when she chooses to use it to stab. The woman 
who had uttered the words was young — a year older than Bessie— and it was 
known at one time that she was setting her cap at Bessie’s sweetheart. But she 
had met with no encouragement from George, who, being wrapped heart and 
soul in Bessie, had no eyes for other women. George often nodded a laughing 
assent to a favorite saying of his mother’s, that “ one woman was enough for 
any man. More than enough sometimes,” Mrs. Naldret would occasionally 
add. The stab which Bessie received shall be given in the few words that con* 
veyed it. 

“ So George goes away to-morrow morning,” was the woman’s remark to Bes- 
sie, as she was hurrying home with heavy heart. 

“Yes,” sighed Bessie ; “ to-morrow morning.” 

“ Ah,” said the woman, “ he’ll be nicely cut up at leaving. I dare say he’d 
give a good deal if he could take some one with him.” 

“I am sure he would,” said Bessie, thinking that by “some one” herself was meant, 

“ Oh, I don’t mean you,” said the woman, seeing the interpretation that Bessie 
put upon her words. 

“ Who do you mean, then? ” asked Bessie, looking up quickly. 

The woman laughed, and shrugged her shoulders. 

“Weill” she exclaimed. “Some girls are blind! Thank goodness, the best 
man in the world couldn’t blind me so ! ” 

“ What do you mean ? ” demanded Bessie, in an agitated tone, all the blood 
deserting her face. “ What have you to say against George ? ” 

The woman laughed again. 

“You’ve no cause to be jealous, Bessie,” she said, “it’s only a child. But 1 
do think if I Was George’s sweetheart ’’—Bessie’s lip curled, and this little ex- 
pression made the woman’s tone more venomous — “I do think,” she added, with 
scornful emphasis, “that if I was George’s sweetheart — oh, you needn’t curl your 
lip, Bessie!— I should ask him— who— Tottie’s— father— was ! A woman isn’t 
worth that” — with a snap of her finger — “ if she hasn’t got a spirit.” 

And George’s discarded left Bessie white and trembling, with this wound in 
her heart. 

Bessie looked after the woman, dazed for a few moments by the accusation 
conveyed in the words; then she became suddenly indignant, and the blood 
rushed back to her face and neck ; it dyed her bosom, and she knew it and felt 
it, and felt the stab there also. Then she hurried home. 

Ben Sparrow did not notice her agitation at first; he was too much rejoiced at 
the lifting of a heavy weight from him. In the morning ruin had stared him in 
the face ; a small creditor had come down on him — had given him twenty-four 
hours to pay an account which, trifling as it was, he was not possessed of. But 
young Mr. Million had been to see him and had saved him. He would be able 
to pay this hard creditor-^I am ashamed to say for how trifling an amount— in 
the morning, and he was exultant. “ I am only too glad,” this young gentlemau 
had said, “to have the opportunity of rendering a service to Bessie’s grand- 
father.” When he departed old Ben Sparrow actually danced in his parlor in 
thankfulness for the danger escaped. ' ^ 


BREAD-ANb-CHEESE AND KlSSES. 


51 


"Bessie,” cried Ben Sparrow as his granddaughter entered, “ young Mr. Mil- 
lion has been here.” 

Bessie nodded, scarcely heeding the words. 

“ He’s a gentleman,” continued Ben Sparrow, “ every inch of him ; to forget 
the past as he does.” 

“ What past, grandfather?” asked Bessie. “ Forget what?” 

“ Oh, nothing — nothing, my dear,” exclaimed Ben, hurriedly, and coughing as 
is something had come up or gone down the wrong way. “ What I say is, he’s a 
gentleman, every inch of him.” 

“You said that before, grandfather.” 

“Did I? Oh, yes; of course. But I am an old m..n, Bessie, and you must 
make allowances. We can’t be all bright and fresh and always happy, as my 
dear child is.” 

Bessie kissed Ben Sparrow’s neck, and laid her head on his shoulder. “Al- 
ways happy, grandfather I Am I always happy? ” 

“ Of course you are, dear child ; and it’s natural, amd right, and proper. Sorry 
and grieved, of course, because your sweetheart’s going away — but he’ll be back 
soon, never fear. And we’ll talk of him every day and every night, my dear, and the 
time ’ll fly away” — he blew a light breath — “like that! Ah, my dear! it’s only 
the old that knows how quickly time flies ! ” 

Bessie said nothing, but pressed closer to the old shield that had sheltered her 
from babyhood to womanhood. 

“And now see,” said the old shield, “what young Mr. Million brought for you. 
And you’re to wear them at once, he said — and I say so too — and I promised him 
you would; for he’s coming here to-night, and is going to do me such a kindness 
as only the kindest heart in the world could do.” 

Ben Sparrow took from his pocket a little box and opened it, and produced 
therefrom a piece of tissue-paper, and from the tissue-paper a pair of pretty tur- 
quois ear-rings, set in gold. Bessie scarcely looked at them, and allowed Ben 
to take from her ears the pair of old ear-rings she had worn for ever so many 
years and replace them with Mr. Million’s pretty present. 

" You look, Bessie,” said old Ben, falling back and contemplating her, “ like 
a princess! and it’s my opinion, my dear, that you are every bit as good as one.’ ’ 

He held a piece of looking-glass before her and desired her to look at 
herself. To please him she said they were very pretty, and then said — suddenly 
coming to what was uppermost in her mind — “ Grandfather, I want you to tell 
me about Tottie.” 

“About Tottie, my dear! ” exclaimed Ben Sparrow, wonderingly. 

“ Yes,” replied Bessie, sitting down, “ about Tottie. All I know is, that you 
came and asked me once if I would mind if you brought a little friendless girl 
home to live with us, and if I would take care of her.” 

“ And you said, Yes, gladly; for it would be company for us and would make 
the place pleasant. And I’m sure neither you nor me have ever repented it. If 
Tottie was our own flesh and blood we couldn’t be fonder of her. I shouldn’t 
know what to do without her now I’ve got so used to her. I’ll tell you the story 
by-and.by, my dear, when George has gone ” 

"Nol ” interrupted Bessie, so impetuously as to cause old Ben to jump; “now! 


52 


lJREAD-ANt)-CHEESE AND ElSSES. 

I want to know now. Ah, dear grandfather 1 you have always been so good to 
me that I can’t help being a tyrant.” 

“ You a tyrant! ” cried Ben, appealing with raised hands to the walls and the 
furniture to join him in the repudiation of the astonishing statement. *‘That s a 
good one, that is. Well, my dear, as you want to know at once, and as you re 
such a tyrant — ha, ha ! I can’t help laughing, my dear — ^here goes. It’s now three 
years gone, Bess — before George and you began to keep company, my dear that 
George comes and tells me a story of a poor little thing that had been thrown 
helpless upon the world. ‘Such a pretty little thing! ’ says George ; ‘and not a 
friend but me to look after her ! 1 wish I knew some one,’ says George, ‘ w’ho 

would take care of the dear ; I’m sure I could never be grateful enough to them. 
Then I asked how old the child was, and whether she did not have relations. 
‘ Yes,’ said George, ‘she had two; but they had no home, and were altogether 
in too bad a position to take care of the little one.’ Then I thought of you, my 
dear, and thought it would be company for my Bessie and for me, and that if we 
grew to love the child there would be nothing to repent of. I told George this, 
and George confessed that he had the same thing in his mind too, and that was 
the reason why he spoke to me about it — hoping that I would say what I had 
said. And so — to cut a long story short — one night a woman came to the door 
with little Tottie in her arms, and kissed the child a many times, and George 
brought Tottie in. I didn’t see the woman’s face, but I fancied that she was cry- 
ing. I have often wished since that I had seen her face, the poor creature 
seemed in such distress. You remember, Bessie, when you came home an hour 
afterward, and found me sitting before the fire with Tott-ie in my lap, warming 
her little toes, how you fell in love with her directly, and how happy she made 
us, and how this very parlor was — because Tottie was with us — really made a 
great deal more cheerfuler than ever it had been before ! You remember the 
wonderful dimples that came into her face when she looked at us and broke out 
a-smiling — as much as to say, ‘How do you do, old Ben and young Bess? I’m 
very glad to see you ! ’ Why, it was as good as a play! I can see you now, kiss- 
ing her little toes, and can see her crowing and laughing when you kissed her 
neck — so fat and so full of creases! and I can see her clinching her little fist and 
flourishing it in the air as much as to say, ‘ In this fist I’ve got a hundred-pound 
note, and all the world and his wife shan’t take it from me ! ’ Dear, dear ! the 
child has been a comfort to us, and it was a bright day when she came into the 
house, the poor little thing! Then George says, ‘ You’re not to be expected to 
keep Tottie for nothing, Mr. Sparrow ; and here’s three shillings a week, and 
when she gets a big girl perhaps we’ll be able to spare more.’ And he’s paid the 
three shillings a week regular, and has brought little things for her now and 
then ; such as a frock, you know, or a flannel petticoat, or a little pair of shoes. 
And that’s the whole of the story, Bess.” 

Bessie had listened very attentively to the narration of Tottie’s history, and 
now said, after a pause, with a strange hesitation in her voice : 

“ Grandfather, did George never tell you — who — Tottie’s — father — was?” 

“No, my dear. I remember once it coming up between us somehow, but 
George turned it off, and said it didn’t matter to Tottie, who seemed as happy as 
the day was long — and so she was, and is, my dear.” 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE ANE KISSES. 


53 


At that moment “ Shop ! ” was called, and Ben Sparrow hurried in to attend to 
his customer, and the subject dropped. 


ONE KISS FOR HOPE, ONE FOR FAITH, AND ONE FOR LOVE. 

Tea was over and cleared away in the little back parlor, and Bessie and old 
Ben Sparrow sat looking sadly into the fire. Tottie was also present in her high 
chair, but there was nothing of sadness in her thoughts. She was enjoying, in 
anticipation, what was spread upon the table ; for after the fashion of humble 
folks, preparations had been made for “a party” on this last evening which 
George was to spend with them. There was a bottle of sherry wine ” on the 
table, and another of port, which old Ben had bought at a large grocer’s shop 
over Westminster Bridge, at a cost, for the two bottles, of two shillings and four- 
pence; and that the wine was of an old and rich vintage, was proved by the mil- 
dew and sawdust which clung to the bottles. There were six wine-glasses of dif- 
ferent shapes and patterns; and there was a plate of almonds and raisins, and 
another of figs, and some small seed-cakes, and four oranges cut in quarters ; so 
that altogether the table presefflted quite a festive appearance. There was noth- 
ing festive, however, in the coumtenances of Bessie and her grandfather; their 
faces were as sad as their thoughits. It was but natural. And yet they would 
have been loth to have confessed to each other the exact tenor of their contem- 
plations. 

A bustle in the shop caused Ben Sparrow to jump from his chair. 

“That’s Mr. and Mrs. Naldret,” he said, and opened the parlor door and gave 
them welcome. 

“ Well, Bessie,” said Mrs. Naldret, and “Well, my girl,” said Jim Naldret; and 
they both kissed her, and shook hands with old Ben, who bustled about doing 
nothing, while Bessie assisted Mrs. Naldret to take off her bonnet and things. 
Mrs. Naldret had with one glance taken in the preparations for the party, and 
approved of them. 

“What a pretty pair of ear-rings! ” exclaimed Mrs. Naldret, admiring the tur- 
quois trifles in Bessie’s pink ears, and, “ Well, George is a sly one ! ” said -Jim 
Naldret, pinching the pretty ears. 

“ George didn’t give them to her,” said Ben Sparrow, rubbing his hands ; “no, 
nor me either. I’m not rich enough ; though if I could afford it, Bessie should 
have had such a pair long ago, and a gold chain and a watch as well.” 

“ She’s pretty enough to have them,” said Jim Naldret. 

“ And good enough,” added Ben. “ Well, I am glad to see you! But I wish 
it was to welcome George back instead of wishing him good-bye. Eh, Bess?” 

“ Yes, grandfather,” replied Bessie, with a heavy sigh. 

Mrs. Naldret said nothing; she was thinking who had given Bessie :he turquois 
ear-rings ; she knew they could not have cost less than four pounds at least. 

“There’s George,” said Jim Naldret, as the shop door opened. 

Bessie turned eagerly to the door, but Ben Sparrow stepped before her and 
said, in a hurried, agitated tone : 


54 


BREAD-AND-CHEESfi AKD KISSES. 


I should like to hare a few quiet words with George, my dear : I shan’t have 
another opportunity. Mrs. Naldret won’t mind.” 

That worthy woman nodded, and Ben Sparrow, going into the shop, stopped 
George’s entrance into the parlor. 

“ Don’t go in for a minute,” said Ben ; “ I want to speak to you.” 

“ All right, grandfather; but I must have a kiss of Bessie first, Bessie I ” 

The girl ran into the shop at his call, and nestled in his arms for a moment. 

“ There ! there ! ” exclaimed old Ben, taking Bessie’s hand gently and kindly. 

Go inside, Bess, my dear. That’s all George wanted with you. We’ll be in 
presently.” 

Bessie went into the parlor, and George’s heart was like a nest from which the 
dearly loved bird had flown. That little embrace, with Bessie, warm and soft 
and tender, in his arms, contained such exquisite happiness as to be painful. 

“I’ll not keep you two minutes,” said Ben Sparrow; come to the door, so that 
we may not be heard.” 

They went to the shop door, and into the street, which they paced slowly as 
they conversed. 

“ As I was sitting inside by the fire just now, George,” resumed Ben, “there 
came into my mind something which I think I ought to speak of before you go 
away. It brought back old-time memories, too. You see, my dear boy, I am an 
old man, and there’s no telling what may happen. It is a comfort to me that 
Bessie will have a good man for a husband — for I believe you to be good, and — 
and a man, George ! ” 

“Indeed, Mr. Sparrow, T will do my best. It will be my happiness to make her 
happy.” 

“ I believe it will be, George, and that’s why I’m glad she will be yours. I have 
nothing to give her, George, nothing. I am so poor that I don’t know which 
way to turn sometimes to pay little bills.” 

“ I want nothing with her, Mr. Sparrow. I want no better fortune than Bessie 
herself.” He was overflowing with love for his dear girl. 

“ She’s good enough to be a princess,” said Ben, proudly, “good enough to be 
a queen,’’ 

“She’s my princess and my queen,” replied George; “and she’s a good girl 
and wiU be a good wife, and that’s better than all.” 

“That it is— that it is. But don’t interrupt me, George. I thought once that I 
should be better off than I am, but something went wrong with me, and I lost all 
my little savings. Since then I have been going down, till sometimes I think 
I can’t go down any lower.” Old Ben Sparrow paused here, and before he re- 
sumed closed his eyes, and put his hand over them, as if with his inner sense of 
sight he were looking into the past. “ George, I am going to speak of Bessie’s 
father — and my son ; it is only right that I should, for you may meet him,” 

“ Meet him, Mr. Sparrow ! ” 

“ Yes,” replied the old man in a quiet tone. “ I dare say you have heard that 
he ran away, years ago; in disgrace. Bessie was quite a little thing then, and I 
don’t think any one has been so unkind as to speak of it to her. To tell you the 
truth, George, she believed years ago that her father was dead, and it is best that 
she should not be told different. And he may be dead, George, for all I know. 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


65 


He was employed as one of old Mr. Million’s collectors, and he used money that 
didn’t belong to him. He used my money, too, and put my name to papers with- 
out my knowing ; so that when he ran away, to prevent something worse happen- 
ing, I had to pay, which brought me down, and kept me down, George. This is 
a solemn secret between us, George, and must never again be spoken of.” 

“ I understand, sir.” 

“ But I thought it right that you should know before you go away. It don’t 
alter your opinion of Bessie, does it, George? does it, my boy?” 

“Alter my opinion of Bessie!” exclaimed George, warmly. “It gives her a 
greater claim on me. I love her more for it, dear girl, knowing how unhappy it 
would cause her to know this. Of course it must be kept from her! ” 

“ Dear boy, God bless you ! God bless you, dear boy! ” cried old Ben Sparrow, 
with the tears running down his face. “ And, George— when you make a little 
money, and come home with it to make Bessie happy, be contented. Don’t go 
striving after riches, as my son did, and forget the meaning of honesty, and the 
happiness there is in contentment. From the time he ran away I have never 
had a line from him. But I heard that he was seen in Australia, and if he is 
alive you may meet him, for there are not many people there. Strange things do 
happen, George ! You may meet him, and know him. I dare say he has grown 
something like me but taller and more gentlemanly. Ah, that was his ruin, 
wanting to be a gentleman ! Well, if you do meet him, George,” and the old 
man took George’s hand and pressed it hard, and twined his fingers with George’s 
nervously — “ if you do, give him — my — my love, George — my dear love — and 
tell him to write to me, and that his old father forgives him, George — that he 
forgives him! And tell him about you and Bessie, and how beautiful Bessie has 
grown, and how she’s fit to be a princess — ” Old Ben broke down here, and 
George put his arms around the old man’s neck, and patting him on the back, 
said: “Yes, yes, Mr. Sparrow, I understand, I understand. I’ll do all that you 
wish, and in the way that you wish. And now that I know. I’ll look out for him. 
What part of Australia do you think he’s in?” 

“ I don’t know, George ; but Australia can’t be very large. I’ve done right to 
tell youy George, haven’t 1 ? ” 

“ Yes,. quite right.” 

With that they went into the house, and joined the party in the parlor. It was 
not a very merry one, and the conversation chiefly consisted of tender reminis- 
cences and hopeful anticipation. George tried to be gay, but broke down, and if 
it had not been for old Ben Sparrow chirruping out a line of “ Cheer, boys, cheer, 
there’s wealth for honest labor,” now and then it would have been difficult to 
keep matters going. But a diversion was occasioned in the course of the evening 
by ^e arrival of young Mr. Million, who came in to shake hands with George, he 
said, and to wish him good-bye. George was sitting in the corner, with Tottie on 
his kqee ; the child was in a state of repletion, having feasted her full on the pleas- 
ures of the table, and was curled up in George’s arms feeling very sleepy. Bes- 
sie,, sitting next to George (he had a spare arm for her waist, Tottie notwithstand- 
ing), cast strangely disturbed glances at her lover and the child, and her heart 
was bleeding from the wound inflicted upon it by what she had heard that after- 
noon^ Every -time George stooped and kissed Tottie, Bessie’s wound opened. 


56 


BREAD-AN1>*CHEESE AND KISSES. 


and she was almost distracted with doubt, and grief, and love. Young Mr. Mil- 
lion was very sunny and bright — a sunbeam lighting up the sad clouds. He 
gave just a glance at the ear-rings in Bessie’s ears, and Bessie blushed as she rose 
to allow George to shake hands with him. No one saw the glance but Mrs. Nal- 
dret, and she looked gravely at Bessie. Young Mr. Million was profuse in his 
good wishes for George ; he wished the young man all sorts of luck, and hoped 
he would soon be back. Every one was gratified at the heartiness with which 
young Mr, Million expressed his good wishes — every one but Mrs. Naldret; but 
then nothing seemed to please her to-night. 

“ I must drink your health, George,” said the young brewer. 

Ben Sparrow asked him with a grand air whether he would take sherry wine or 
port, and he chose sherry, and said that Miss Sparrow should fill his glass for him. 
Bessie filled his glass and handed it to him Avith a bright flame on her cheeks; 
her hand shook, too, and a few drops of the wine were spilled upon the table, 
which young Mr. Million said, gaily, was a good omen. 

“ And here’s good luck to you, George, and a prosperous voyage,” he said, 
and shook hands with George and Avi«hed him good-bye, and shook hands also 
with all in the room. Old Ben Sparrow looked at him very anxiously, and when 
the young prince, with a quietly significant glance at the old man, proposed that 
Miss Sparrow should open the shop door for him, Ben said, “Yes, yes, certainly, 
sir,” and almost pushed Bessie into the shop. Now what made Mrs. Naldret open 
the parlor door, and seat herself so that she could see the shop door ? It may 
have been done unconsciously, but certain it is that, seeing something pass 
between young Mr. Million and Bessie as they shook hands at the shop door, she 
gave a sudden cry, as if overtaken by a spasm. Bessie ran in at the cry, and 
then Mrs. Naldret saAv in one quick flash, what no 'one else saw (for Bessie slipped 
it into her pocket), a letter in Bessie’s hand! The matron said it aaus nothing, 
merely a stitch in her side ; and turned from the maid to her son, around whose 
neck she threw her arms, and kissed him again and again. 

“Why, mother!” exclaimed George, for Mrs. Naldret was beginning to sob 
convulsively. “ Come, bear up, there’s a dear soul, or we shall be all be as bad 
as you ! ” 

Mrs. Naldret repressed her sobs, and pressed him closer to her faithful breast, 
and whispered, 

“ Ah, George, there are a many women in the world for you, but there’s only 
one mother I” 

He whispered back to her, “ There’s only one woman in the world for me, and 
that’s my darling Bessie; and there is only one other who is as good as she is, 
and that’s the mother I hold in my arms.” 

And all she could reply to this was, “ Oh, George, George! Oh, my dear, dear 
boy I ” with a world of love and pity in her voice. 

And so the sad evening passed away, until George said. Hadn’t father and 
mother better go home? He would soon be with them. They knew that he 
wanted to say good-bye to Bessie, who sat pale and tearful, with her hand in his; 
and they rose to go, saying he would fijid them up when he came home. 

“ I know that, dear mother and father,” he said, and went with them to the 
door, and kissed them, and came back with the tears running down his face. 


SREAD-AifD-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


67 


I’ll tell you what, George,” whispered old Ben Sparrow in George’s ear. **You 
shall say good-by to Tottie and me, and we’ll go to bed; and then you’ll have 
Bessie all to yourself. But don’t keep too long, my dear boy, don’t keep too 
long.” 

Tottie had been fast asleep for more than an hour, and George took her in his 
arms without waking her. 

Good-by, Tottie,” he said ; “good-by, little one I ” He kissed her many times, 
and the child, stirred by his caresses, raised her pretty little hand to his face. 
He kissed her fingers, and then resigned her to old Ben, who, with his burden in 
his arms, grasped George’s hand tight and bade him good-by and God-speed. 

“ And don’t forget, George,” he said, with a secret look toward Bessie. 

“ No, Mr. Sparrow,” replied George, “ I’ll bear in mind what you told me.” 

“God bless you, then, and speed you back! ” 

With this the old man ascended the stairs, with Tottie in his arms, turning over 
his shoulder to give George a parting look, 'and humming “Cheer, boys, cheer I ” 
softly, to keep up the spirit of the lovers. 

They had listened with a kind of strained attention to the old man’s voice, and 
when it was hushed, and silence fell upon them, George turned to Bessie, and in 
an instant she was in his arms, lying on his breast. A long silence followed. 
George heard Bessie’s heart beat plainer than the tick of the old-fashioned clock 
which stood like A ghost in a corner of the room. Not another sound could be 
heard but the ticking of the old clock and the beating of their hearts. As Bes- 
sie lay in her lover’s arms, she thought whether it would be generous in her to 
question him about Tottie. The very asking of the question would imply a 
doubt A voice whispered to her, “ Trust him — perfect love means perfect con- 
fidence.” But the woman’s words were present to her also — and George was 
paying for the child. She would not admit the thought of anything dishonora- 
ble in George; but the sting of the doubt was in her. Would it not be better 
for her to ask a simple question, which George could easily answer, than to be 
tormented with doubt during the long months he would be away from her? 
Would it not be simple justice to Tottie? For if she were not satisfied she might 
grow to hate the child. And Bessie really loved the pretty little forsaken one. 
The maternal instinct was in her, like the seedling of a flower in the ground, 
waiting for the summer-time to ripen it into the perfect beauty of motherly love. 
She loved children. 

And here a word. Whether out of place or not, it must be written. Trust not 
that woman who has no love for little ones. She is unworthy of love. 

How long the lovers remained silent they did not know. But the time flew all 
too swiftly, for the solemn tongue of Westminster proclaimed the hour. Each 
clang was like a knell. It was midnight. 

Midnight! What solemn reflections arise at such a moment, if the mind be at- 
tuned to them! If the world were spread before us like a map, what varied 
emotion and feeling, what unworthy striving, what unmerited sufiering, what 
new lives born to pain, what old lives dying out in it, what thoughts dark and 
bright, what flowers of tender love, what weeds of ruthless circumstance, what 
souls born in the mire and kept there, what hope, what remorse, what sounds of 
woe and pleasant fountain voices with spai'kles in them, what angel-lights and 


58 


Bread-and-cheese and kisses. 


divine touches of compassion, would, in the brief space occupied by the striking 
of the hour, there be displayed ! And so that bell may toll, night after night, for 
generation after generation, until a time shall come — say in a hundred years — 
when every human pulse that at this moment beats throughout the world, when 
every heart that thrills and thirsts, when every vainful mortal that struts and 
boasts and makes grand schemes for self’s exaltment, shall lie dead in earth and 
sea! Such thoughts should make us humble. 

The bell awoke the lovers from their dream, and they spoke in low tones of 
the future and the hopes that lay in it for them. 

“When I come back with a little bit of money, my darling,” said George, “I 
shall be content to settle down to my trade, and we shall jog along as 
happy as can be. We couldn't settle down without pots and pans, and these I 
am going away to earn. I can see our little home, with you sitting by the fire- 
side, or waiting at the door for me to give me a kiss when my day's work is done. 
Then I shall come around to mother’s old way, with her bread-and-cheese and 
kisses. That will be good enough for me, my darling, with you to give me the 
kisses.” 

And he gave and took an earnest of them there and then. 

So they talked of one thing and another until one o’clock was tolled by the 
Westminster bell, and during all that time Bessie had not found courage to speak 
of what was in her mind. George had noticed the ear-rings in Bessie’s ears, but 
had not spoken of them, thinking that Bessie would have drawn his attention to 
them. But Bessie’s wound was too fresh — the p'ain and bewilderment of it were 
all-engrossing. She had no thought for anything else. 

“And now I must go, my darling,” said George, as they stood by the shop door; 
“for mother and father are waiting for me.” He took her face between his 
hands and kissed her lips. “One kiss for hope; one for faith; and one for 
love.” 

Bessie raised her face again to his, and whispered as she kissed, 

“And one for confidence.” 

“And one for confidence,” he repeated, as heartily as his sadness would allow. 

“There should be no secrets between us, George dear.” 

“Certainly there should not be, darling,” he replied, “though you've been 
keeping one from me ail the night, you puss! ” 

“ I, George ! ” 

“Yes, you, dearest. You have never told me who gave you those pretty ear- 
rings.” 

Upon such slight threads often do our dearest hopes hang! Bessie, yielding 
to the weak impulse, to play off confidence for confidence, said, 

“Never mind those, George. I want to ask you something first.” 

At this moment the sound of music came to them, and the waits commenced 
to play the dear old air of “Home, sweet home.” 

“ That's Saul’s doing,” thought George. “ Good fellow ! What will become of 
him during the time I am away?” As he and Bessie stood linked in a close em- 
brace, the soft strain floated through the air into their hearts. 

“There shall be no secrets between us, George, in our own home— sweet 
homel” 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


69 


“None, darling I” 

“ Aud you’ll not be angry with me for saying something? ” 

“ What can my dear girl say to make me angry? And at such a time ! ” 

“Then tell me, George — about Tottie.” 

“The dear little thing! What about her, dearest?” 

“George, is she an orphan?” 

How long seemed the interval before he replied! Tick — tick — tick — went the 
clock, so slowly! Oh, so slowly now ! 

“No, Bessie.” 

How strangely his voice sounded! But he held her closer to him, and she had 
no power to free herself from his embrace. Indeed, she would have fallen had 
he loosed her. 

“Do not be angry with me, George,” she whispered, slowly and painfully. 
“She has a father living? ” 

Another long, long pause, and then, “ Yes,” from George, in the same strange 
tone. 

“Tell me his namej George.” 

He held her from him suddenly, and, with his hands upon her shoulders, 
looked her steadily in the face. But her eyes drooped in the light of his earnest 
gaze. 

“ I cannot Bessie,” he said ; “ I must not. When we are married I will tell 
you all. There shall be no secrets between us in our home — sweet home. TD* 
then, be satisfied.” 

Softer came the dear old air to Bessie's ears — but the tender meaning in it was 
gone for her. ^he turned from her lover petulantly. 

“ I did not think you would refuse me this, George.” 

Wiser, stronger than she, he said, 

“Do not let this trivial matter come between us, my dear; ” and would have 
taken her to his heart again, but she did not meet him as before.. “This trivial 
matter!’* Was he so lost to honor and to love for her? Something of her mind 
he saw in her face, and it made his blood hot. “ Good God ! ” he thought, “ is 
it possible she suspects me ?” Then he strove to soothe her, but she would not 
be soothed. She said but little now; but her face was white with misery — doubt 
tore at the wound in her heart. She knew the pain she was inflicting upon him by 
the pain she felt herself. But she could not yield — she could not say, “I know you 
are true to me. I will be satisfied and will wait.” So his efforts were vain, and two 
o’clock struck, and their agony was not over. The tolling of the bell, however, 
brought to him the picture of his father and mother waiting up at home for him. 
“ I mmt go,” he said, hurriedly. “ Good-by, dear Bessie, and God bless you. 
Trust to me, and believe that no girl ever had more faithful lover.” 

In spite of her coldness he pressed her close to his breast and whispered as- 
surances of his love and faithfulness. Then tore himself away and left her al- 
jnost fainting in the shop — love and doubt fighting asickening battle in her heart. 


60 


BREAD-AKD-CHEESB AND KISSES. 


YOU ALONE, AND MY MOTHER. ARE TRUE; ALL THE REST OP THE WORLD 

IS FALSE. 

Tlie night Avas very cold, and George felt the keen wind a relief. He took off 
his hat and looked around. The street was still and quiet; the last strains of 
“ Home, sweet home,” had been played, and the players had departed. All but 
one, and he waited at the end of the street for George to come up to him. 

“What, Saul! ” 

“ George ! ” 

They clasped hands. 

“ I am glad you are here, Saul. I should not have liked to go without wishing 
you good-by.” 

“ I waited for you. I knew you were in there. Mother and father sitting up 
for you, I suppose?” 

“Yes. In a few hours I shall go trom here; then I shall be alone! ”. 

“As I am, George.” 

“Nay, Saul, you have Jane.” 

“She has left me, dear woman. I may never see her face again. It is for my 
good, George, that she has done this. You do not know how low we have sunk. 
George,” and here his voice fell almost to a whisper, “ at times we have been al- 
most starving! It could not go on like thiS) and she has left me and taken 
service somewhere in the country. She has done right. As I suffer, as I stretch 
out my arms in vain for her, as I look around the walls of my garret and am des- 
olate in the light of my misery, I feel and confess that she has done right. Here 
is her letter. Come to the lamp; there i^light enough to read it by.” 

George read the letter and returned it to Saul, saying, “ Yes, she is right; 
What do you intend to do ? ” 

“ God knows ! To try if I can see any way. But all is dark before me now> 
George.” 

“ I wish I could help you, Saul.” 

“ I know, I know. You are my only friend. If it ever be in my power to re- 
pay you for what you have done ” He dashed the tears from his eyes and 

stood silent for a few moments, holding George’s hand in his. “ George,” he 
said, in unsteady tones, “in times gone by you and I have had many good con- 
versations; we passed happy hours together. Words that have passed between 
us are in my mind now.” 

“ In mine too, Saul.” 

“ We had once,” continued Saul, in the same strange, unsteady tones, “ a con- 
versation on friendship. I remember it well, and the night on which it took 
place. We walked up and down Westminster Bridge, and stopped now and then 
gazing at the lights on the water. There is something grand and solemn in that 
sight, George ; I do not know why, but it always brings to my mind a dim idea 
of death and immortality. The lights stretch out and out, smaller and smaller, 
until not a glimmer can be seen; darkness succeeds them as death does life. 
But the lights are there, George, although our vision is too limited to see them. 
You remember that conversation, George?” * 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


61 


“ As if it had taken place this night, Saul. I can see the lights and the dark- 
ness that follows them.’' 

“We agreed then upon the quality of friendship, but gave utterance to many 
generalities.” Saul paused a while, and then said, slowly, “ I am considering, 
George, whether I rightly understand the duties that lie in friendship.” 

“ Faithfulness, trustfulness.” 

“Yes, those; and other things as well. Say that you had a friend, and had 
learned something, had seen something, of which he is ignorant, and which he 
should know ; say it is something that you would keep from your friend if you 
were false instead of true to him ” 

“ I should be a traitor to friendship,” interrupted George, warmly, “ if I kept 
it from him. If I were truly his friend I should seek him out and say what I had 
learned, what I had seen.” 

“ Even if it contained pain, George : even if it would hurt him to know ? ” 

“ Even if it contained pain ; even if it would hurt him know. There is 
often pain in friendship ; there is often pain in love. You have felt this, Saul, 
yourself. I have too, dear friend ! Often into life’s sweetness and tenderness 
pain creeps, and we do not know how it got there.” 

George uttered this in a gentle tone — he was thinking of Bessie. “Come, 
friend,” he said, seeing that Saul hesitated to speak, “ you have something to tell 
your friend. If you are true to him, tell it.” 

Thus urged Saul said, “ First answer me this : When did you first think of 
emigrating ? ” 

“ I did not think of it at all before it was put in my head.” 

By whom?” 

By young Mr. Million. One night — not very long ago now — he met me and 
got into conversation with me. Trade had been a little slack, and I had had a 
few idle days. This made me fret; for I saw that if things went on in the same 
way it might be years before I could save enough to buy furniture to make a 
iiome for Bessie. I let this out in conversation with young Mr. Million and he 
lymjiathized with me and said it was a shame, but that if he were in my place he 
v7'Ouldput himself in a position to marry his sweetheart in less than a year. 
B[o)W? I asked. By emigrating, he said. It staggered me, as you may guess, 
Sa ul. The idea of going away had never entered my head. He went on to say 
•tijit his father took a great interest in working-men, and was very interested also 
la emigration ; that only that morning his father had mentioned my name, and 
had said that he had a passage-ticket for the very ship that is gcing out of the 
Mersey to-morrow, Saul, and that if I had a mind to better myself he would give 
the ticket to me. I thanked him, and told him I would think of it. Well, I did 
think of it, and I read about wages over the water, and saw that I could do what 
lie said. He gave me the ticket, and that’s how it came about.” 

“George,” said Saul, pityingly— for things that were at present dark to 
George seemed clear to him— “Mr. Million never heard your name until this 
morning.” 

“ Stop ! ” exclaimed George, passing his hcind over his eyes with a bewildered 
air “ Speak slowly. I don’t know that I understand you. Say that again.” 

Saul repeated, “Mr. Million never heard your name until this morning. I 


62 


BKEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


went to his house, thinking that as he had helped you he might help me, and 
he scoflfed at me and taunted me bitterly. He had no more to do with getting 
your ticket than I had. Every word young Mr. Million told you about the pass- 
age and about his father was false.” 

“ Good God ! ” cried George. “ What could be his motive, then, in telling me 
these things, and in obtaining this passage ticket for me ? ” 

“Think, George,” said Saul; “there is such a thing as false kindness. He 
may have a motive in wishing you away. I could say more, but I cannot bring 
my tongue to utter it.” 

“ You must, Saul, you must! ” cried George, in a voice that rang through the 
street. They had walked as they conversed, and they were now standing out- 
side his mother’s house. “ You must! By the friendship I have borne for you! 
By the memory of what I have done for you ! ” The door of his house was 
opened as he spoke. His mother had heard his voice, and the agony in it, and 
came to the doom George saw her standing there, looking anxiously toward 
him, and he said, in a voice thick with pain, “ Stay here until I come out. By 
the love you bear to Jane, stop until I come. My mother will know; she is far- 
seeing, and I may have been blind.” 

He hurried to his mother, and went into the house with her. For full half an 
hour Saul waited in suspense, and at the end of that time George came out of the 
house, staggering like a drunken man. Saul caught him and held him up. His 
face was as the face of death ; a strong agony dwelt in it. 

“ I have heard something,” he said, in a tone that trembled with passion and 
pain and weakness. “ My mother has doubted for a long time past. She took a 
letter from him secretly to-night ! Those ear-rings she wore he gave her. Oh, 
my God ! Tell me, you, what more you know. By the memory of all you hold 
dear, tell me ! ” 

“ George, my dear,” said Saul, in a broken voice, “ a few moments after I 
quitted Mr. Million’s house I saw her enter it.” 

A long, long silence followed. The stars and the moon shone brightly, but 
there was no light in the heavens for George. A sob broke from him— and an- 
other, and another. 

“ For God’s sake,” exclaimed Saul, “ for your mother’s sake — who suffers now 
a grief as keen as yours— bear up ! Dear friend, if I could lay down my life for 
you I would ! ” 

“ I know it. You alone, and my mother, are true; all the rest of the world is 
false ! He wished to get rid of me, did he ? and this was the trap ! The false, 

lying dog ! But when I meet him Se,e here ! Here is the ticket he gave 

me. If I had him before me now, I would do to him as I do to this ” 

He crumbled the paper in his hand, and tore it fiercely in twain. Saul caught 
his arm and stayed its destruction. 

“No, no, George ! ” he cried— but his cry was like a whisper. “Don’t destroy 
it! Give it, oh, give it to me! Remember the letter that Jane wrote to me. 
Think of the future that is open to me — to her — unless I can see a way. The 
way is here ! Here is my salvation ! Let me go instead of you !” He fell upon his 
knees and raised his hands tremblingly, as if the Death- Angel were before him 
and he was not prepared. “If I live I will repay you, so help me the great Godl” 


bread-and-cheese and kisses. 


63 


George muttered, “ Take it. For me it is useless. May it bring you the hap- 
piness that I have lost ! ” 

Saul kissed his friend’s hand, which fell from his grasp. When he looked up 
his friend was gone. And the light in the heavens, that George could not see, 
shone on the face of the kneeling man. 


PART II. 

THEY SAW, UPON ONE OP THE NEAREST PEAKS, A MAN STANDING, WITH SUN- 
SET COLORS ALL AROUND HIM. 

We are in the land of a thousand hills. Height is piled upon height, range 
upon range. The white crests of the mountains cut sharp lines in the clear, cold 
air, and the few trees that are dotted about stand like sentinels on the watch. 
On one of the far heights some trees, standing in line, look like soldiers that 
have halted for rest, and the clumps of bush that lie in the valleys and on the 
sides of the hills are like wearied regiments sleeping. 

In dear old England the roses are blooming, and the sun is shining? but here 
it is night, and snow shadows rest on the mountains and gullies. Among the 
seemingly interminable ranges ice-peaks glitter like diamond eyes. Round about 
us where we stand there is but little wood growth; but in the far distance — be- 
yond the eye’s reach — are forests of trees, from the branches of which garlands 
of icicles hang fantastically ; and down in the depths the beautiful fern leaves 
are rimmed with frosted snow. We are in the New World. 

Creation might have been but yesterday. Even these white canvas tents, lying 
in the lap of night in the center of the forest of peaks, do not dispel the illusion. 
They are clustered in the saddle of a gully almost hidden from sight by jealous 
upland. But look within, and you will see that the old world is marching on to 
the new. Sturdy men, asleep upon canvas beds, are resting from their toil. 
Some are from old Devon, England’s garden-land; some from the Cornwall mines; 
some from the mother-land’s fevered cities. Rest, tired workers ! Sleep for a 
little while, strong, brown-bearded men Over your spirits, as you dream — and 
sometimes smile — it may be that the eternal light of a new childhood is slowly 
breaking I 

Hark I What cry is this that reaches the ear? Come nearer. A baby’s voice! 
And now we can hear the soft voice of the mother singing her child to sleep 
with an old familiar nursery rhyme. Dear words ! Dear memories ! Sweet 
thread of life ! When it snaps the world is dark, and its tenderness and beauty 
have departed from our souls. The mother’s soft voice is like a rill dancing 
down a hill in the sun’s eye. How sweet it sounds ! 

What brings these men, women and children here among the wilds? For 
answer take — briefly told — what is not a legend, but veritable New-World his- 
tory. 

Two men, adventurers from the Old World, attracted thence by the news of 
gold discoveries, traveled into the new country in search of an El Dorado which 


64 


BREAD-ANb-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


they could keep to themselves until their fortunes were made. They traveled 
over mountain and plain, and searched here and there, for weeks and months, 
without success, until, almost starving and penniless, they found themselves on 
the banks of a swiftly flowing river. This river, here wide, here narrow, here 
confined between rocky precipices, here wudening on the plains, presented 
strange contrasts during the year. In the winter, the mountain snows which fed 
it came tumbling furiously over the rocks ; then its waters rushed madly through 
the defiles and overflowed the plains. In the summer, peace came to it ; the 
warm sun made it drowsy, and it fell asleep. It curled itself up in its bed, as it 
were, and left its banks bare and dry. The snow torrents from the mountains 
brought with them something rarer that snow — gold. The precious metal grew 
in the mountain rocks, and when the furious water tore it from its home, and 
carried to the river, it sank into the river’s bed and banks, and enriched every 
fissure and crevice in its stony bottom. When the two adventurers camped by 
the river’s side it was summer, and the banks were dry. They tried for gold, and 
found it. In a few hours they unearthed tw'enty ounces, and they looked at each 
other with wild eyes. Not a soul was within many miles of them ; only the birds 
and insects knew their secret. But they could not work without food. Some 
twenty miles from the scene of their discovery was a sheep-farming station. 
Thither they walked in the night, so that they might not be observed, and slept 
during the day. Pleading poverty, they bought at the station a little meat and 
flour, and W'alked in the daylight away from the river. But when night fell, they 
wearily retraced their steps, and crept through the dark like thieves, until they 
came to the precious banks. For weeks and months they worked in secret, and 
lived like misers, never daring to light a fire, for fear the smoke might be seen; 
the very wind was their enemy. Their flesh wasted, their faces became haggard, 
their hair grew tangled and matted, they became hollow-eyed; and when, after 
many months of sufiering, they had amassed as much pure gold as they could 
carry, they walked painfully and wearily through bush and plain for a hundred 
and sixty miles, until they came to a city with a few thousand inhabitants, where, 
skeletons among men, they told their story, and for the first time showed their 
treasure. Delirium seized the city; men became almost frantic with excitement; 
and the next day half the inhabitants were making preparations to journey to 
Tom Tiddler’s ground. Surely enough, the river’s banks proved a veritable gold 
mine; and after a time fresh discoveries were made. Came there one day a man, 
almost dead, from the snow mountains, with lumps of gold in his pockets ; but 
the perils of those regions were great, and men thought twice before they ven- 
tured. Life, after all, is more precious than gold. Some adventurers went forth 
and never returned to tell their story. Then it was said they were killed by 
starvation, not by the perils of the weather; or because they had no guns, and 
tents, and blankets with them. Said some, “ Let us take food sufficient for 
months, and whatever else is necessary.” They took more; they took wives, 
those who had them. Believe me, woman was worth more than her weight in 
gold. So in the summer they w’ent into Campbell’s Ranges, and pitched ^heir 
tents their. And those they left behind them, wrapped in their eager hunt for 
gold, forgot them for a time. The town nearest to the Ranges was many miles 
away; it was composed of a couple of score of tents and huts, and perhaps two 


8BSAD*AKD-0HEESS AND KISSBS. 63 

litmdred persons lived there. Wandered into it, looking about him strangely, 
vristfully — for Old-World's ways were upon him, and Old-World thoughts were 
stirring in his mind — a man, tall, blue-eyed, strong. No man is long a stranger 
in the New World, and this wayfarer talked to one and another, and heard from 
a butcher the story of the two adventurers working on the river’s banks until 
they were worn to the skin and bone. 

'‘But they got gold ! ” exclaimed the newcomer. 

"Almost more than they could carry,” was the answer. 

TThe man looked about him restlessly ; the eager longing of his soul was for 
gold, but in him it was no base craving. 

"If one could get into the mountains, now,” he said, "where the gold comas 
from 1 ” 

Said the butcher: 

"Some went, and didn’t come back.” 

"They lie over there?” said the man, looking toward the hills. 

"Ay,” replied the butcher, "them’s Campbell’s Ranges. Tliere’s a party pros- 
pecting there now, I’ve heard. They’ll get gold, sure, but it requires courage.” 

"Courage!” exclaimed the man, not scornfully and arrogantly, but sweetly 
and gently. "Who dares not deserves not. And when a great thing is at 
alake ! Thank you, mate. Good-day ! 

_ft.nd then he walked in the direction of Campbell’s Ranges, stopping to buy a 
little flour on his way. He could not aflbrd much ; his means were very small. 

The rough diggers often spoke among themselves of the manner of his 
flrsl coming to them. They were working in the gullies, which were rich with 
gold; some were burrowing at the bottom of their mines, some were standing by 
the windlasses, hauling up the precious dirt. They had been working so from 
sunrise, and their hearts were light; for the future was as glowing as the bright 
colors of the sun were when they turned out to work— as glowing as the beauti- 
ful colors in the sky were now. It was sunset. The gold-diggers standing in the 
sun’s light, with strong chests partly bared, with strong arms wholly so, were 
working with a will. Now and then snatches of song burst from their lips ; now 
and then jests and good-humored words were flung from one to the other. The 
women were busy outside their tents, lighting fires to prepare for supper ; three 
or four children were playing with a goat and a dog ; a cat — yes, a cat — stepped 
cautiously out of a tent, and gazed solemnly about. And all around them and 
above them were the grand hills and mountains, stretching for miles on every 
side. It was a wonderful life amidst wonderful scenes. Close contact with the 
grandeur of nature and with its sublime influences humanized many of the 
rough men, and melted them to awe and tenderness. The hills were full of 
echoes ; when the thunder came, the titanic hollows sent the news forth and 
brought it back again ; it was like God’s voice speaking with eternal majesty. 
As the diggers looked up from their work, they saw, upon one of the nearest 
peaks, a man standing, with sunset colors all around him. 



9 



“THEY SAW A MAN STANDING, WITH SUNSET COLOES ai.t. 

ABOUND HIM.”— Paoe 65. 








BBSAS-AUB'CHEISZ Ain> dfiffiS. 


MOWS PRECIOUS THAN GOLD, PURER THAN DIAMONDS, ARE THESE SWEET AND 

DELICATE WAYS. 

Their first thought was, “ Is he alone ? Are there more b nd him ?” for they 
were jealous of being overwhelmed by numbers. He looked down upon the 
busy workers, and with slow and painful steps came across the hills, and down 
the valley toward them. Pale, patient-looking, foot-sore, ragged, and with deep 
lines on his face, he stood in the midst of them, a stranger among the hills. 

“Are these Campbell’s Ranges!” he asked, humbly. 

“Yes, mate.” 

The man who answered him had just emptied a bucket of fresh-dug earth onto 
a little hillock by the side of his mine. The stranger saw specks of gold among 
it. , There was no envy in the look that came into his eyes. It was like r 
prayer. 

“ Where do you come from?” asked the gold-digger. 

The stranger mentioned the name of the town. 

“ Did you come in search of us?” 

“ I heard that there was a party of men working in Campbell's Ranges, and 
that there was plenty of gold here ; so I came.” 

“ By yourself?” 

“ By myself. I know no one. I have been but a short time in the colony.” 

“You have no tent?” 

“ I had no money to buy one.” 

“ He murmured these words in so soft a tone that the gold-digger did not 
hear them. 

“ No blankets ? ” 

“For the same reason.” 

Again he murmured the reply, so that the questioner did not know his desti- 
tute condition. 

“No pick or shovel? ” 

The stranger shook his head sadly, and was turning away, when the gold- 
digger said : 

“ Well, mate, the place is open to aU; but we want to keep ourselves as quiet 
as possible.” 

“ I shall tell no one.” 

He turned from the worker, and sat himself on the ground at a short distance 
from the human hive, out of hearing. The gold-diggers spoke to one another, 
and looked at him, but. made no advance toward him. The women also raised 
their heads and cast many a curious glance at the stranger, who sat apart from 
them. He, on his part, sent many a wistful glance in their direction, and watched 
the fires and the children playing. Behind the hills sank the sun, and night 
drained the fiery peaks of every drop of blood. Before the hills grew white the 
gold-diggers left off work, and, contrary to their usual custom, took their buck- 
ets and tools to their tents, and took the ropes from their windlasses. There wa» 
a stranger near them. 

“ He seems decent.” said the women. 


68 


BBEAD-AKD-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


You can never tell,” replied the men, shaking their heads in doubt. 

Now and then they came from their tents to see if the stranger were still there. 
He had not moved. It was from no want of humanity that they did not call to 
him, and ofier him food and shelter. How did they know that he did not belong 
to a party of bush-rangers, whose object was plunder? They let off their fire- 
arms and reloaded them. But if they had known this man’s heart and mind ; if 
they had known that he was penniless, friendless ; that his feet were sore, and 
that he had not tasted food since yesternight; if they had known the trouble of 
his soul, and the dim hope which kept up his heart and his strength — they would 
have played the part of good Samaritans without a moment’s hesitation. The 
darker shadows came down upon the valleys, and wrapped the man and his mis- 
ery from their gaze and comprehension. They could see the faint outline of his 
form — lothing more. What were his thoughts during this time ? “They suspect 
rie ; it is natural. If I can keep my strength, I may find gold to-morrow, and 
then they will sell me food, perhaps. If not— there are women among them. I 
may be able to touch their hearts.” He gazed around and above him — at the 
solemn hills, at the solemn sky, and thought, “For myself, I should be content to 
die here, and now. But for her — for her! Give me strength, great God — sustain 
mel ” He knelt, and buried his face in his hands ; and when the moon rose, as 
it did soon after, it shone upon his form. , A woman, standing at the door of her 
tent, was the first to see him in his attitude of supplication. She hurried in to 
her husband, who was nursing a little daughter on his knee. 

“David,” she said, “that man is praying. There can be no harm in him, and 
he has no shelter. He may be in want of food.” 

** Poor man 1 ” said the little daughter. I 

The father lifted her gently from his knee, and went out without a word. 
The touch of a hand upon his shoulder roused the stranger, and he looked into 
David’s face. 

“ What are you doing? ” asked David. 

** Praying.” 

•* For what?” 

“ For strength ; for comfort. I need both. Turn your face from me! I am 
breaking down I ” 

A great sob came from the stranger’s heart. David, with averted face, stood 
steady and silent for full five minutes. Then placed his hand upon the stranger’s 
shoulder and spoke : 

“ Come with me. I can give you a shelter to-night. My wife sent me to 
you.” 

“ God bless her ! ” 

“ Amen. Come, mate.” 

The stranger rose, and they walked together to the tent, where the woman 
and child awaited them. The stranger took off his cap — it was in tatters — and 
looked at the woman and her child, and stooped and kissed the little girl, who 
put her hand on his face, and said, pityingly : 

“ Poor man I Are you hungry ? ” 

“ Yes, my child.” 

That the man and the woman should turn their backs suddenly upon him and 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


6® 


make a perfectly unnecessary clatter, and become unnecessarily busy, toueherl 
the stranger’s sensitive heart, and the unspoken words were in his mind: “ Clod 
be thanked! There is much good in the world.” 

More precious than gold, purer than diamonds, are these sweet and delicate 
ways 

“Now, David,” cried the woman, briskly, “ supper's ready.” 

And David and his wife, noswithstanding that they had made their meal an 
hour ago, sat down with the stranger, and ate and drank with him. When sup- 
per was over David said : 

“ We’ll not talk to-night ; you must be tired. You slept out last night, I 
suppose ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

** And without a blanket. I’ll bet I ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ A good night’s rest wiU do you good.” 

Upon this hint his wife brought some blankets, and gave them to the stranger. 
She and her husband and child slept in the back part of the small tent, the 
wall of division being strips of green baize. Before turning in, David said : 

“ You had best have a look around you in the morning ; I can lend you a pick 
and shovel. My name’s David.” 

“ Mine is Saul Fielding.” 

By his patience and gentleness he soon made his way to the hearts of the resi- 
dents in this small colony. First, the children loved him; the liking of the 
mothers followed naturally; and within a month eveiy man there was his friend. 
Love is not hard to win. Try, you who doubt. Try, with gentleness and kind- 
ness, and with charitable heart. 

# * «• * '* 4 « « « 

It was full three month’s after Saul Fielding’s introduction to the small settle- 
ment in Campbell’s Eanges. Of human beings there are fifty souls, all told. 
Four women — wives — seven children, and thirty-nine men. Of other living 
creatures, there are at least a dozen dogs (what is your gold fields without its 
dogs? ), three goats, wise, as all goats are, in their generation, a large number of 
poultry (some of them in the shell), and a cat. The shade of Whitting- 
ton would rejoice if it knew that this cat cost an ounce of gold — and a pinch 
over. 

It is June and winter, and the snow season is in its meridian. The workers 
are snow-bound; the heights all around them are more than man-deep in snow. 
But they have no fear. They have made wise preparations for the coming of the 
enemy, and up to the present time they have escaped hurt. They have wood and 
provisions to last them for full six months. That they are cut off from the wor!4 
^ for a while daunts them not. Their courage is of the Spartan kind. They have 
been successful far beyond their expectations, and nearly every man there is 
worth his hundred ounces of gold. Some have more, a few less. Saul has 
eighty ounces, and he keeps it next to his heart, sewn in his blue serge iSiirt, 
David’s wife reproved him once for carrying the weight about. 


70 


S£EAD-AND-CnEE8B AND EISSEf. 


** It is nearly seven pounds weight, Saul Fielding,” she said; **it must weigh 
you down.” 

“Weigh me down, David’s wife I he replied, with a sweet look in his eyes. 
“ It is a feather’s weight. It bears me up! It is not mine; it belongs to the 
dearest woman in the world. The little b^g that contains it contains my sal- 
vation I ” 

David and Saul were mates; they dug and shared, and he lived with the father, 
mother, and child. The man he called David, the woman David’s wife, the child 
David’s daughter. He said to David’s wife one day : 

“ When I go home and join my dear woman, she and I every night of our 
lives will call down a blessing for David and David’s wife, and David’s daugh- 
ter.” 

He often said things to David’s wife that brought tears to her eyes. 

“ We shall go home, too,” said David’s wife, “ and we shall see her.’* 

“Please God,” returned Saul, and whispered, “Come, happy time.” 

How tender his heart grew during this time ! How he blessed God for his 
goodness! What beauty he saw in every evidence of the great Creator! He 
made the rough men better, and often in the evening they would gather around 
1-im while he read to them and talked with them. The Sabbath-day, from the 
time he came am^ng them, was never passed without prayer. And so they had 
gone on during the summer and the autumn, digging and getting gold, singing 
songs to the hills while they dug and delved. The men had built stronger huts 
for the women and children, in anticipati®u of the winter, and they all lived 
happily together. Then the snow began to fall. It came light at first, and 
dropped softly to the ground around about the huts of the small community, as 
if it were bringing to them a message of love from tne clear, bright sky. They 
laughed when they saw it, for it warmed their hearts Avith visi ns of the dear old 
land over the seas. It brought back to them memories of their school-boy days. 
“ After the snow,” they said, the primroses ; ” and in their fancy they saw the 
old country’s sweet flower. The children played with it, and pelted each other 
with snow-balls, and the men joined in the sport. The goats scampered up the 
hills in mad delight, and sent snow-sprays in the air Avith their hoofs. The 
AV'omen looked on lovingly, and the little gully Avas filled with pleasant mirth, 
and the echoes laughed after them. At night they clustered around their fires, 
and raised up pictures for the future. They talked of their gold, not greedily, 
but gratefully ; they blessed the land Avhich gave them its treasures willingly; 
and in their dreams they dreamed of dear old England, and of the dear faces at 
home — the dear old faces Avliich Avould smile upon them again by and by, please 
God! And Avhile they dreamed, and Avhile their hearts were light, and while 
Avithin them reigned the peace Avhich came from pleasant thoughts, the soft snoAV 
fell and fell. Day after day passed, Aveek after week, and still it fell. After 
many Aveeks had thus passed, Saul Avoke in terror one night. He did not know 
what had occasioned the fear that Avas upon him. Was it caused by a dream ? 
He could remember none. He felt as if a spirit’s voice had spoken to him. He 
rose and listened. He heard nothing. Everything around him was wrapped in 
peace and silence. Softly he dressed himself, so as not to disturb the sleepers, 
and went out of the tent. The snoAV was falling fast. How white and pure were 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


71 


the hills ! In the far distance they and the sky seemed one. He took a pole, 
and feeling his way carefully, walked across the near hills, ankle deep, knee 
deep, waist deep, breast deep. And yet he had not walked far, not five hundred 
yards. The terror that was upon him now assumed a tangible shape. He was in 
a snow prison. Nature held him fast; had built up barriers between him and 
Jane. Was it destined that he should never get away frdtu these snow-bound 
hills? Suppose the snow continued to fall for weeks and months! “Jane!” 
he cried. And the echoes cried, “ Jane ! Jane ! ” dying away mournfully. The 
sound frightened him, and he called no more. Then his reason came back to 
him. They could keep the snow away from their tents; all they had to do was to 
shovel it down ; all they had to do was to be vigilant He comforted himself 
with this thought, and slowly, painfully, retraced his steps to his tent, and crept 
among his blankets again. As he lay, he heard a moan. How every little sound 
frightened him ! It was but the wind. But the moan grew louder, grew into a 
shriekj and rushed past the tent, and over the hills like an angry spirit. And it 
brought the snow-drift with it ! But he did not think of that as he lay shiver- 
ing. He did not know the new danger that) threatened him. “ God shield 
you, dear woman I ” he murmured, as he fell into a doze. “God bring mo 
to you! ” 

All night long the wind shrieked and whistled through the tents ; the men, 
tired out with their exertions, did not wake. But the women did, and lay and 
trembled. David’s wife awoke. 

“ David ! ” she whispered ; but he did not hear her. 

“What’s the matter, mother?” murmured her daughter. 

“Nothing, child, nothing. It’s only the wind. Hush! wemusn’twake father. 
Go to sleep, darling 1 ” 

The sun rose late the next morning, and a dim blood-veil was in the sky, 
■which made some of them think that it was night still. The miners found, 
the snow around their huts to be three feet deep. They looked anxious atthfsi 
We can master the snow,” they whispered to one another, “ but the snow- 
drift will master us.” 

» 3Even as they spoke, the wind, which had lulled, began to moan again, and 
before they had been working an hour shoveling away the snow, the wind-storm, 
bringing the snow with it from the heights over which it rushed, blinded them, 
and drove them into their tents for shelter. They could not hold their feet. 
“Let ns hope it’ll not last long,” they said ; and they took advantage of every 
lull to work against their enemy, not like men, but like heroes. 

“ What makes you so downcast, Saul?” asked David; he had not begun to lose 
heart. 

Saul looked in silence at David’s wife and David’s daughter; they were at the 
far end of the hut 

“You are not frightened. Saul, surely?” said David. 

“Not for mysek’, David,” whispered Saul. “ But tell me. 'What kind of love 
do you bear for your wife and child?” David's look was sufficient answer. “I 
have a perfect love for a woman also, David. If she were here, as ycur wife is 
with you, I could bear it, and so could she. David, we are beset by a terrible 
danger. Listen to the wind. I am afraid we may never get out of this.” 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


72 

David^s lips quivered, but he shook away the fear. 

“ We mustn’t lose heart, Saul, and we must keep this danger from the wife and 
little one. There’s men’s work before us, and we must do it — like men 1 

“Trust me, David,” said Saul; “my heart beats to the pulse of a willing 
hand; ” and said no more. 

The wind-storm continued all the day with such violence that it was impossible 
for the men to work. As the day advanced the blood-veil in the sky died away, 
and when the night came the moon’s light shone clear and cruel, bright and 
pitiless. 

Worn out with hard toil and anxiety, Saul Fielding lay down that night and tried 
to sleep. “ I must have strength for to-morrow,” he thought. The fierce wind had 
grown faint, and it moaned now among the hills like a weak child. Saul smiled 
gladly and accepted it as a good omen. He hugged his gold close, and vowed 
that he would not risk another season of such danger. “ If I do not get an ounce 
more,” he thought, “ I will be content. What I have will be sufficient for the 
home and for Jane. Jane, dear Jane!” Her name always came to him like a 
prayer; and with “Jane” on his lips and “Jane” in his thoughts he fell asleep 
and dreamed of her. He dreamed that he and the others had escaped from their 
snow-prison, and that he was on his way home. Blue waters were beneath him; 
bright clouds were above him; a fresb breeze was behind him — and the ship 
dipped into the sea and rose from it like a light-hearted god. The sailors were 
singing, and he sang with them as he lent a hand with the ropes. He looked 
across the sea and saw Jane standing on a far-off shore, with a glad face turned 
toward him. “I am coming, Jane ! ” he cried, and she smiled and held out her 
arms to him. Nearer and nearer he approached to the haven of his hopes; 
nearer and nearer, until, although they were divided by many miles of water, he 
could speak to her and hear her speak. “See! ” he cried, and held out his bag 
of gold. As she raised her eyes with thankfulness to the heavens, David’s wife 
and David’s daughter appeared suddenly by his side. “Here are the friends 
who saved me, Jane,” he cried. “David is below, asleep, and his wife is here — 
knowing your story and mine. She insists upon saying that you are her sister — 
she is a good woman. The shame of the past is gone.” As he said these words 
a sudden and terrible wind sprang up; and the dark clouds, rushing down from 
heavens, shut Jane from his sight. In a moment everything was changed. The 
ship seemed as if it were being torn to pieces; the waters rose; and the cries of 
the sailors were indistinguishable amidst the roaring of the wind. “My God!” 
he heard David’s wife cry; and at that moment he awoke, and rising swiftly to 
his feet, saiy a candle alight in the tent, and David’s wife standing in her night- 
dress on his side of the green baize which divided the tent. Her face was white 
with terror. “My God! ” she cried again; “we are lost! ” The storm that had 
arisen in his dream was no fancy. It was raging now among the hills furiously. 

“Go into your room,” said Saul, hurriedly. “I will be dressed in a minute.’* 

In less than that space of time he was up and dressed, and then David tore 
the green baize aside. 

“Saul,” he said, “ this is terrible I ” And stepping to Saul’s side, whispered, 
** If this continues long, our grave is here.” 

Saul went to the door of the tent and tried to open it; he could not. The 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


?3 

wind had brought with it thousands and thousands of tons of snow from the 
heights, and they were walled up. Saul felt all around the sides of the tent. 
The snow was man-high. Only the frail drill of wliich the tent was made kept 
it from falling in and burying them, lu an instant Saul compreheuded their 
dread peril. v 

“The tree ! ” he cried, as if an inspiration had fallen upon him. “ The treeV^ 

Just outside the tent, between it and the tent next to it, stood a great pine-tree 
— the only tree among the tents. Many a time had it been suggested to cut down 
this tree for fire-wood, but David had prevented it. “Wait,” he had said, “until 
we want it; when fire-Avood runs short, and Ave can’t get it elsewhere, it Avill be 
time enough.” So the tree had been saved_from the axe and stood there like a 
giant, defying the storm. Saul piled up the rough seats and the tables which 
comprised the furniture of the tent, and climbing to the top of them cut a great 
hole in the roof of the tent. It was daylight above, and the snow was falling 
fast. Saul saw the noble tree standing fast and firm in the midst of the storm. 
With a desperate leap he caught a branch and raised himself above the tent. 
And when he looked upon the awful scene — upon the cruel white snoAv in Avhich 
the tents all around him were imbedded, and nearly buried — his heart throbbed 
despairingly. 

But this Avas no time for despair. It was time for action When he had se- 
cured his position in the tree he stooped over the tent. 

“ David ! ” he cried. David’s voice ansAvered him. 

“This is our only chance,” he said, loudly; he spoke slowly and distinctly, so 
that those within the tent might hear him. “ Here we may be able to find safety 
until the storm abates and the snow subsides. Listen to me, and do exactly as I 
say. Get some provisions together and some water — and the little brandy that 
is left. Make them up in a bundle. Tie rope and cord around it, and let me 
have it. Quickly ! ” 

Before he finished speaking, David’s wife was busy attending to his instruc- 
tions. 

“Answer me, Saul,” cried David. “ What do you see of our mates?” 

Saul groaned. “ Do not ask me, David I Let us thank God that this tree was 
left standing.” 

David climbed on to the table in a few minutes, with the bundle of provisions 
in his hands. He was lifting it for Saul to take hold of, when the pile upon 
which he was standing gave Avay, ami he fell heavily to the ground. 

At this moment a movement in the lent nearest to the tree arrested Saul’s at- 
tentioHo One of tlie men inside had thought also of the tree, and had adopted 
Saul’s expedient of cutting through the roof of the tent. His head now ap- 
peared above the rent. He saw Saul, but he was too far aAvay to reach the treij. 

“Give me a hand, mate ! ” he cried. “ Give me a hand, for God’s sake ! ” 

“One moment,” replied Saul, deeply anxious for the fate of David, for he 
heard the generous-hearted digger groan, and heard David’s Avife sobbing. “Keep 
your hold and stand firm for a little while. You are safe there for a time. There 
is something here in my own tent 1 must see to at once.” Then he called, 
“David I David! Are you hurt?” 

The voice of David’s Avife answered him with sobs and cries. “ He can’t move. 


74 


BBEAl>*Ain>>CS[EESE AND KISSES. 


Saul! Hecan^tmove! Oh, my poor, dear David f He has broken his leg, he 
says, and his back is hurt What shall I do? Oh, what shall I do! 

But although she asked this question, she — true wife and woman as she was — 
was attending to tlie suflerer, not thinking of herself. 

‘‘God pity us I ” groaned Saul, and raised his hand to the storm. “Pity oal 
pity us 1 ^ he cried. 

But the pitiless snow fell, and the soft flakes danced in the air. 

Then Saul cried, “ David’s wife I The child ! the child ! ” 

“Let me be, wife,” said David; “I am easier now. Pile up those seats again— 
make them firm. Don’t hurry. I can wait. I am in no pain. Lift our litUe 
daughter to Saul, and the provisions afterward.” 

She obeyed him; she piled the seats one above another. Then brought tha 
child to David. He look her in his arms, and kissed her again and again. 

^‘Mypetl my darling!” bemoaned. “Kiss father, little one I ” 

And the rough man pressed this link of love to his heart, and kissed her face, 
her hands, her neck, her lips. 

^‘Now, wife,” he said, and resigned their child to her. David’s wife stood 
silent for a few moments with the child in her arms, and murmured a prayer 
over her, and blessed her, and then, keeping down her awful grief bravely like a 
brave woman, climbed to the height and raised her arms to Saul with the child 
in them. Only her bare arms could be seen above the tent’c roof. 

■“Come, little one,” said Saul; and stooping down at the risk of his life, 
clutched the child from the mother’s arms, and heard the mother’s heart-broken 
sobs. 

“Is she safe, Gaul?” 

*‘She is safe, dear woman.” 

Other heads rose from other tents and turned despairingly ab ut. But no help 
for them was near. They were in their grave. 

David’s wife raised the provisions to Saul, and went down to her hut>.^and. 

“ Wife,” said David, “leave me and see if you can reach Saul. It will be dif- 
ficult, but you may be able to manage it.” 

She looked at him tenderly. 

“My place is here, David,” she said ; “ I shall stay witli you and trust to God. 
Our child is safe — in the care of a good man.” 

• He tried to persuade her, but she shook her head sweetly and sadly, and sim- 
ply said, “I know my duty.” He could say no more, for the next moment he 
swooned, his pain was so great Then his wife knelt by him and raised his head 
upon her lap. 

Meanwhile the man in the next tent who had called to Saul to give him a hand 
had not been idle. He found a plank, and was raising it to the roof with the pur- 
pose of resting it upon a branch of the tree. As with more than a man’s strength 
he lifted the plank forward, Saul heard a thud beneath him, and looking down 
saw that the walls of the tent in which David and his wife were had given way, 
and that the snow was toppling over. He turned his head— he was powerless to 
help them. The tears ran down his face and beard, and he waited, awe-struck 
by the terror of the time. He thought he heard the voice of David’s wife cry, 

“ Good-by, ray child I God preserve youl ” 


BBEAD-AKD-CfimrSB AND KISSES. 


75 


In a chokina: voice he said solemnly to David^s little daughter, 

“S'.y, God bless you, mother and father I ” 

The child repeated the words in a whisper, and nestled closer to Saul and said, 

“ I’m 80 coldl Where’s mother and father? Why don’t they conic up?” 

Saul, with a shiver, looked down. Nothing of David or David’s wife did he 
see — the tent was not in sight. The snow had covered it. And still it fell — and 
s.ill it drifted. 

The digger who occupied the next tent had fixed his plank ; not a moment was 
to be lost — his tent was cracking. Creeping along the plank with the nervous 
strength of desperation — clinging to it like a cat— he reached the tree and was 
saved tor a time. As he reached it, the plank slipped into the snow. And still 
it fell, and rose higher and higher. Men .signaled to each other from tent to 
tent, and bade God bless each other, for they felt that, unless the snow-drift and 
snow-fall should instantly cease, there was no hope for them. But still it fell — 
fell softly into the holes in the canvas roofs and sides, into the chambers below; 
crept up to them inch by inch ; wrapped yellow gold and mortal flesh in soft 
shrouds of white, and hid the adventurers from the light of day. 

Only three remained. Saul and David’s little daughter in the uppermost 
branches of the tree. The digger from the nearest tent clinging to a lower 
branch. 

This man was known by the name of Edward Beaver; a silent man at best and 
one who could not win confidence readily. His face was covered with hair fast 
turning gray. Between him and Saul but little intercourse had taken place. 
Saul had not been attracted by Beaver’s manner, although often when he looked 
at the man a strange impression came upon him that he knew the face. Saul 
spoke to Beaver once, and asked him where he came from ; but Beaver answered 
him roughly, and Saul spoke to him no more. In this dread time, however, 
Beaver’s tongue was loosened. 

“ This is awful,” he said, looking up at Saul. 

Saul looked down upon the white face Avhich was upturned to his, and the 
iame strange impression of its being familiar to him stole upon him like a subtle 
vapor. An agonizing fear was expressed in Beaver’s countenance— he was 
frightened of death. He was weak, too, having just come out of a low fever, 
and it needed all his strength to keep his footing on the tree. 

<‘Do you think we shall die here ?” he asked. 

“I see no hope,” replied Saul, pressing David’s little daughter to his breasfc 
The child had fallen to sleep. Saul’s soul was too raueh troubled for converse, 
and the morning passed almost in silence. Saul lowered some food and drink to 
Beaver. I have very little brandy,” he said ; ” but you shall share and share.’* 
And when Beaver begged for more, he said, “No, not yet — I must husband it. 
Remember, I have another life here in my arms to care for.” 

The day advanced, and the storm continued; not a trace of the tents or those 
who lay buried in them could be seen. The cruel white snow had made n 
church-yard of the golden gully 1 

Night fell, and brought darkness with it; and in the darkness Saul shuddered, 
with a new and sudden fear, for he felt something creeping up to him. It was 
voice creeping up the tree, like an awful shadow. 


7ft 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


“Saul Fielding,” it said, “ my time has come. The branches are giving way, 
and I am too weak to hold on.” 

“ God help you, Edward Beaver,” said Saul, pityingly. 

And David’s little daughter murmered in her sleep, “What’s that, mother?” 
Saul hushed her by singing in a soft, tender voice a nursery rhyme, and the child 
smiled in the dai’k, and her arras lightened around Saul’s neck. It was a good 
thing for them that they were together; the warmth of their bodies was a com- 
fort, and in some measure a safeguard to them. 

When Saul’s soft singing was over, he heard Beaver sobbing beneath him. “I 
used to sing that once ” the man sobbed, in weak tones, “to my little daughter.” 

“Where is she now ?” asked Saul, thinking of those beloved at home. 

“Bessie I Bessie!” cried Beaver, faintly. “ Where are you ? Oh my God I if 
I could live my life over again !” 

Saul thought of George’s Bessie as he asked, “Where do you come from? 
What part do you belong to?” 

It was a long time before he received an answer, and then the words crept up 
to him, faint and low, through the darkness, as though the speaker’s strength 
was waning fast. 

“From London — from Westminster.” 

“From Westminster 1 ” echoed Saul, and Beaver’s face appeared to his im- 
agination. 

“ I must tell you,” gasped the dying man ; “ I must tell you before I die. You 
may be saved, and you will take my message home.” 

“I will, if I am spared,” repli.ed Saul, in a voice which had no hope in it. 

'‘I have been a bad son and a bad father. My name is not Beaver — it is Spar- 
row, and my father, if he is alive, lives in Westminster.” 

“Old Ben Sparrow, the grocer!” cried Saul, in amazement. “I know him t 
I saw him a few weeks before last Christmas. You are Bessie Sparrow’s father; 
I thought your face was familiar to me.” 

“Bad son! bad father!” muttered the man. “Oh my God! the tree is sink- 
ing! the branch is giving way! Tell me quickly, for mercy’s sake. My daughter 
— Bessie — she is alive, then? Tell me of her.” 

“She was well when I saw her,” replied Saul, with a groan, thinking of George 
and his lost hopes. “She has grown into a beautiful woman.” 

“Thank God! If you ever see her again, tell her of me — ask my father to 
forgive me. Take the love of a dying man to them. I have gold about me — it is 
theirs. Say that I intended to come home and ask forgiveness, but it has been 
denied me. God has punished me ; I am sinking ! ” 

A cry of agony followed, and the wind took it up and carried it over the 
hills. Then all was hushed, and the erring son and father spoke no more. 

Saul offered up a prayer for Bessie’s father, and waited sadly for his time to 
come. 

As the night waned, the fierce wind grew softer, and sighed and moaned, re- 
pentant of the desolation it had caused. What a long, long night it was ! But 
at length the morning’s light appeared, and then Saul, looking down, saw that he 
and David’s little daughter were the only ones left. Stronger grew the light, un- 
til day had fairly dawned. As Saul looked over the white expanse, he felt that 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


77 


tJiere was no Lope for him, and his mind began to wander. Long forgotten inci- 
dents of his childhood came to him ; he saw his father and mother, long since 
dead ; he saw a brother who had died when he himself was a child; he saw Jane 
as she was when he first met her, as she was on that sad night when she told him 
of the duty that lay before him; he saw George and the lights on Westminster 
Bridge. All these visions rose for him out of the snow. And fields and flowers 
came, and he wandered among them hand in hand with Jane, as they had done 
on one happy holiday. It did not seem strange to him that there was no color 
in any of these things; it caused no wonder in his mind that all these loved 
ones, and the fields and flowers, perfect in form and shape, were colorless, were 
white and pure as the snow which stretched around him on every side. They 
were dear memories all of them — emblems of purity. And in that dread time 
he grew old ; every hour was a year. But in the midst of all the terror of the 
time he pressed David’s little daughter closer and ^closer to his breast, and com- 
mitted their souls to God. So that day passed, and the night, and the sun rose 
in splendor. The white hills blushed, like maidens surprised. With wild eyes 
and fainting soul, Saul looked around; suddenly a flush of joy spread over his 
face. Upon a distant mount stood Jane. “Come!” he cried. And as Jane 
walked over the snow-hills toward him, he waited and waited until she was close 
to him ; then, sinking in her arms, he fell asleep. 


PART III. 

I HAVE COME TO RETURN YOU SOMETHING. 

On the Afternoon of the day on which the Queen of the South (with George 
Naldret in it, as was supposed) sailed out of the Mersey for the southern seas, 
young Mr. Million, with a small boquet of choice flowers in his hand, made his 
appearance in the old grocer’s shop. Ben Sparrow, who was sitting behind his 
counter, jumped up when the young brewer entered, and rubbed his hands and 
smirked, and comported himself in every way as if a superior being had honored 
him with his. presence. Young Mr. Million smiled pleasantly, and without the 
slightest condescension. The cordiality of his manner was perfect. 

“Quite a gentleman,” thought old Ben; “every inch a gentleman!” 

Said young Mr. Million, “ As I was passing your way, I thought I would drop 
in to see how you and your granddaughter are.” 

“ It’s very kind and thoughtful of you, Sir,” replied old Ben Sparrow. “Of 
course we’re a bit upset at George’s going. Everything is at sixes and sevens, 
and will be, I dare say, for a few days. Bessie’s inside” — with a jerk of his head 
in the direction of the parlor — “she’s very sad and low, poor dear.” 

“We musn’t let her mope, Mr. Sparrow,” remarked young Mr. Million, strik- 
ing up a partnership at once with the old grocer. 

“No, sir,” assented Ben; “we musn’t let her mope; it ain’t good for the 
young — nor for the old, either. But it’s natural she should grieve a bit. You 
see, sir,” he said confidentially, “ George is the only sweetheart Bessie ever had. 


78 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


She aln^t like some girls, chopping and changing, as if there^s no meaning in 
■what they do/^ 

“We must brighten her up, Mr. Sparrow. It wouldn't be a bad thing if you 
were to take her a drive in the country one fine day. The fresh air would do her 
good.” 

“It would do her good, sir. But I couldn't leave the shop. Business is dread- 
fully dull, and I can’t afford to lose a chance of taking a few shillings — though, 
with the way things are cut down, there’s very little profit got nowadays. Some 
tilings almost go for what they cost. Sugar, for instance. I don't believe I get 
a ha’penny a pound out of it.” 

Young Mr. Million expressed his sympathy, and said it ought to be looked to. 
He would speak to his father, who was a “friend of the working-man, you 
know.” 

“I don’t know how to thank you, sir,” said Ben, gratefully. “Indeed, I 
haven’t thanked you yet for the kindness you — ” 

“ I don’t want to be thanked,” interrupted young Mr. Million, vivaciously. “I 
hate to be thanked ! The fact is, Mr. Sparrow, I am an idle young dog, and it 
will always give me pleasure to do you any little service in my power. I will go 
in and say. How do you do? to Miss Sparrow, if you will allow me.” 

“Allow you, sir!” exclaimed Ben. “You’re always welcome here.” 

“I brought this little bunch of flowers for her. Flowers are scarce now, and 
the sight of them freshens one up. Although, Mr. Sparrow, your granddaughter 
is a brighter flower than any in this bunch.” 

“That she is, sir; that she' is,” cried Ben, in delight; adding to himself, under 
his breath, “Every inch a gentleman! His kindness to George and me is a-maz- 
ing— A-MAZ-ING ! ” 

The idle young dog, entering the parlor, found Bessie very pale and very un- 
happy. She was unhappy because of the manner of her parting from George 
last night; unhappy and utterly miserable because of the poisoned dagger which 
had been planted in her heart. 

“I was passing through Covent Garden,” said the idle young dog, in gentle 
tones, thinking how pretty Bessie looked even in her sorrow, “and seeing these 
flowers, I thought you would do me the pleasure to accept them.” 

Bessie thanked him. and took them listlessly from his hand. Tottie, who was 
playing at “shop” in a corner of the room, weighing sand in paper scales, and 
disposing of it to imaginary customers as the best four-penny-ha»penny moist ( is 
this ever done in reality, I wonder!), came forward to see and smell the flowers. 
Ihe idle young dog seized upon Tottie as a pretext for taking a seat, and, lifting 
the child on his knee, allowed her to play with his watch-chain, and opened his 
watch for her, and put it to her ear so that she might hear it tick— a performance 
of which she would never have tired. Ilis manner toward Bessie was very "con- 
siderate and gentle, and she had every reason to be grateful to him, for he had 
been a good friend to her grandfather and her lover. Certainly he' was one of 
the pleasantest gentlemen in the world, and he won Tottie's heart by giving her 
a shilling— the newest he could find in his pocket. Tottie immediately slipped 
off his knee, and went to her corner to brighten the coin with sand; after the 
iaihioa of old Ben Sparrew, who often polished up a farthing with sand until ho 


BnEAD-Ain)*CnEESE AND KISSES. 


79 


conld see his face in it, and gave it to Tottie as a golden sovereign. Tottie valued 
it quite as much as she would have done if it had been the purest gold. 

The idle young dog did not stay very long; he was no bungler at this sort of 
idling, and he knew the value of leaving a good impression behind him. So, 
after a quarter«of-an-hour’s pleasant chat, he shook hands with Bessie, and as he 
stood smiling at her, wishing her good-day, with her hand in his, the door sudden- 
ly opened, and George Naldret appeared. 

His face was white and haggard, and there was a wild grief in his eyes. The 
agony through which he had passed on the previous night seemed to have made 
him old in a few hours. He stood there silent, looking at Bessie and young Mr. 
Million and at their clasped hands. It was but for a moment, for Bessie with a 
startled cry — a ciy that had in it pain and horror at the misery in his face — had 
taken her hand from young Mr. Million’s palm; it was -but for a moment, but 
the new expression that had overspread George’s face like an evil cloud was tha 
expression of a man who had utterly lost all faith and belief in purity and good- 
ness, and had thus lost sight of heaven. 

Bessie divined his meaning, and gave a gasp of agony, but did not speak. Not 
so with young Mr. Million. 

“Good Heavens ! ” he cried, with a guilty look which he could [not hide from 
George’s keen gaze. “ George, what has happened?” 

George looked at young Mr. Million’s out-stretched hand, and rejected it dis- 
dainfully and with absolute contempt. .Then looked at the flowers on the table — 
hot-house flowers he knew they were — then into Bessie’s face, which seemed as if 
it were carved out of gray-white stone, so fixed did it grow in his gaze — then at 
the ear-rings in her ears; and a bitter, bitter smile came to his lips — a smile it 
was pity to see there. 

“These are pretty flowers,” he said, raising them from the table; in the in- 
tensity of his passion his fingers closed upon the blooming things, and in a 
moment more he would have crushed them ; but he restrained himself in time, and 
let them drop from his strongly veined hand. “ I beg pardon,” he said “they are 
not mine. Even if they belong to you — which they do, of course — I have no 
claim on them now.” 

He addressed himself to Bessie, but she did not answer him. She had never 
seen in his face what she saw now, and she knew that it was the doom of her love 
and his. 

“I have come to return you something,” he said, and took from his breast a 
pretty silk purse. It was hung round his neck by a piece of black silk cord, 
and he did not disengage it readily. It almost seemed as if it wished not to be 
taken from, its resting-place. 

As he held it in his hand, he knew that his life’s happiness was in it, and that he 
was about to relinquish it. And as he held it, there came to Bessie’s mind the words 
he had spoken only the night before: “See here, heart’s treasure,” he had said, 
“ here is the purse you worked for me, round my neck. It shall never leave me 
— it rests upon my heart. The pretty little beads! how I love them! I shall kiss 
every piece of gold I put in it, and shall think I am kissing you, as I do now, 
dear, dearest, best!” 

“Take it,” George said now. 


:bread-and-cheese and kisses. 


She held out her hand mechanically, and as George touched her cold fingers he 
shivered. Both knew what this giving and taking meant. It meant that all was 
over between them. 

Old Ben Sparrow had come into the room, and had witnessed the scene in 
quiet amazement ; he did not see his way to the remotest understanding of what 
had passed. But he saw Bessie’s suffering, and he moved to her side. When the 
purse was in her hand he touched her, but she repulsed him gently. Some sense 
of what was due to herself in the presence of young Mr. Million came to her, 
and her womanly pride at George’s rejection of her in the presence of another 
man came to her also, and gave her strength for awhile. 

George’s hand was on the door, when young Mr. Million, who was deeply 
mortified at George’s manner toward himself, and who at the same time thought 
it would be a gallant move to champion Bessie’s cause, laid his hand on George’s 
sleeve, and said : 

“ Stay ; you owe me an explanation.’*) 

“ Hands off! ” cried George, in a dangerous tone, and a fierce gleam in his eyes. 

Hands off, you sneaking dog! I owe you an explanation, do I? I will give it 
to you when we are alone. Think what kind of an explanation it will be, when 
I tell you beforehand that you are a false, lying hound! Take core of yourself 
when next we meet.” 

Every nerve in George’s body quivered with passion and pain. 

“You can’t frighten me with bluster,” said young Mr. Million, who was no 
coward, “ although you may try. to frighten ladies with it. As my presence here 
is likely to cause further pain to a lady whom I esteem” — with a respectful bow 
toward Bessie, which caused George to press his nails into his palms — “I will 
take my leave, unlesss Mr. Sparrow wishes me to stay as a protection to him and 
his grand-daughter.” 

“JNo sir; I thank you,” replied Ben Sparrow, sorrowfully. “George Naldret 
could do my child no more harm than he has done already.” 

“ Then I will go,” and he moved toward the door, “ first saying, however, that 
I tried to be this man’s friend ” — indicating George with a contemptous motion 
of his hand, and repeating, “ that I tried to be his friend — ” 

“You lie ! ” cried George. 

“ — Thinking,” contiifued young Mr. Million, with quiet disdain, “ that he was bet- 
ter than others of his class. But I was mistaken. Mr. Sparrow, you exonorate 
me from all blame in what has taken place?” 

“ Entirely, sir,” said Ben Sparrow, in a sad and troubled voice. 

“ I wish you and your grandchild good-day, then, and leave my hearty sympa- 
thy behind.” 

With these words, and with a triumphant look at George, the idle young dog 
took his departure. Then, after a brief pause, George said. 

“ I have nothing more to stop for now.” 

And, with a look of misery, was about to depart, when Tottie ran up to his 
side, and plucking him by the coat, looked up into his face. 

“ Don’t go,” said Tottie ; “ stop and play.” 

“ I can’t, my dear,” said George, raising the child in his arms and kissing her. 
“I must go. Good-bye, little one.” 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


8i 


He set the child down; tears were coming to his eyes, but he kept them back. 

“ One moment, George Naldret,” said old Ben Sparrow, trying to be dignified, 
out breaking down. “George — my dear George — what is the meaning of this?” 

“I have no explanation to give, Mr. Sparrow,” replied George, sadly. 

“George, my dear boy, think for a moment. Are you right in what you are 
doing? Look at my darling, George; look — ” 

“ Grandfather ! ” 

The word came from Bessie’s white lips; but the voice, struggling through her 
agony, sounded strange in their ears. The word, however, was sufficient; it car- 
ried its meaning in it ; it told her grandfather not to beg for her of any man. 

“You are right, my darling,” he sobbed; “you are right. But neither of you 
will speak, and I am almost distracted. You are not going abroad, then, 
George?” 

“No, Mr. Sparrow; I have no need to go now.” 

Bessie’s strength was giving away. Pride, humiliation, wounded love, suspi- 
cion of her lover’s faith, were conquering her. She held out her trembling hand 
to her grandfather. He took it, and cried, 

“Gerge! George I you are breaking her heart! ” 

“ She has broken mine ! ” replied George, and turned without another word 
and left the room, almost blinded by grief and despair. 

The moment he was gone, a sigh that was almosta groan broke from Bessie’s 
wounded heart, and she sank into old Ben SpazTow’s arms, and fainted there. 


WELL, MOTHER, DO YOU WANT ANY WASHINGOONE? 


'When George Naldret was seen in the streets of Westminster, it occasioned, as 
may be imagined, no little surprise. His neighbors supposed him to be on his 
way to the other end of the world, and they rather resented his appearance 
among them, for he had in a certain measure deceived them. He had promised 
to write to some, to tell them how affairs were over the water ; and two or three 
courageous ones had already made up their minds that if George sent home a 
a good account of things they would sell every stick they had, and make for a 
land where a brighter future awaited them than they could look forward to here. 
They would have been satisfied if George had given them an explanation ; but 
this he absolutely refused to do. “ I have altered my mind,” was all they could 
get from him. “ I may do that if I like, I suppose, and if it don’t hurt you.” 
But some decided that it did hurt them; and when they continued to press him 
for further particulars, he desired them to mind their own business; and this 
was the most difficult task he could set them; it made matters worse. George was 
too delicate-minded and too honorable to introduce Bessie’s name ; and, when 
the inquisitive ones mentioned it, he turned upon them savagely. It caused quite 
a commotion in the neighborhood. 

On the first day Mrs. Naldret had tided to persuade George to keep in-doors and 
not show himself. He said, “ No, mother ; it will be better for me to show my face 
at once, and not shirk the thing.” And his father backed him up in his resolu- 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


tion. When he resolved upon this, he went to his bedroom and locked himseli 
in, and, after much sad communing, decided that the first thing it was incum* 
bent on him to do was to go to Bessie and release her from her promise. Thus it 
was that he met young Mr. Million in the parlor of the old grocer’s shop, where 
he had spent so many happy hours. He had decided in his mind what to say. 
He would be gentle and firm with Bessie. And as he walked to old Ben Spar* 
row’s shop, disregarding the looks of astonishment which his first appearance in 
the streets occasioned, he rehearsed in his mind the exact words he would speak 
to her. But when he arrived there, and saw Mr Million smilingly holding her 
hand, and saw the bunch of rare flowers on the table, he received such a shock 
that his plans were instantly swept away, and he spoke out of the bitterness of 
his heart. 

How the news got about was a mysteiy, and how it grew into exaggerated and 
monstrous forms was a greater mystery still. Who has ever traced to its source 
the torrent of exciting rumor which, like a rush of waters, flows and swells, un- 
locking vivid imagination in its course, until reason and fact are lost in the 
whirl? All sorts of things were said. George was frightened of the water; he 
was in debt; he had done something wrong at the shop he had been working 
for, and was not allowed to leave without clearing it up — these and a hundred 
other things were said and commented upon. The peculiarity of this kind of 
rumor is, that directly a new tlieory is started it is accepted as a fact, and is 
taken to pieces and discussed in all its bearings. George was a fruitful theme 
with the neighbors on that Saturday night and on the following day; they 
served him up hot (like a new and appetizing dish), and so seasoned him and 
spiced him and garnished him that it would have made his blood tingle to have 
known. Bui he did not know, and did not even suspect. To be sure, when Jim 
Haldrct went to the baker’s on the Sunday for his baked shoulder of mutton and 
potatoes he heard sone remarks which did not jAease him, but he did not say a 
word to George ; and the mother, father and son spent a sad and quiet evening 
together, and went to bed ear.ier than usual. 

On the Monday the startling intelligence was bandied from one to another that 
George Naldret and Bess’e Sparrow had broken with each other. Bessie had 
turned him off, it was said ; they had had a dreadful quarrel the night before he 
was to start for Liverpool. But it is not necessary here to set down all the rea- 
sons that were given for the breaking of the engagement. Some of them were 
bad, and all were false. But in the course of the day a little rill was started, 
which grew and grew, and swelled and swelled until it swallowed up all the other 
waters. A rod was thrown down, wliich, becoming instantly quick with life, 
turned into a serpent and swallowed a.l the other serpents. It was said that 
Bessie had discovered that George had another sweetheart— who she was, where 
she lived, and how it had been kept secret all this time, were matters of no im- 
portance ; but it was first whispered, then spoken aloud and commented on, that 
this sweetheart should have been something more than a sweetheart to George— 
she should have been his wife. The reason why she should have been his wife 
was that George was a father. But where was the child ? Rumor decided this 
instantaneou^y. The child was no other than our poor little Tottie ; and George 
]iad basely deceived old Ben Sparrow and Bessie into taking care of the little one 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


8S 

b7 a clever and wicked story that Tottie was an orphan, without a friend in the 
world. Here was food for the gossipersi How this hot dish was served up, and 
spiced and seasoned! 

It reached George’s ears, and he wrote to Ben Sparrow. He said that he had 
heard some rumors aflecting his character; he did not mention what these 
rumors were, but he said they were wicked lies — wicked, wicked lies, he repeated 
in his letter. The rumors he referred to may have reached Mr. Sparrow, and 
might aftect the happiness of a poor, innocent child — a child as innocent as he 
was himself. If so, he was ready to take the little one from Mr. Sparrow’s charge. 
He said no more, concluding here almost abruptly. A reply soon came. Ben 
Sparrow had heard the rumors and was shocked at them; he believed what 
George said in his letter. But the child, said old Ben, was a comfort to them — by 
“them” he meant himself and Bessie, but he did not mention Bessie’s name — it 
formed the principal part of their happiness now in their little home, and to part 
with her would cause “them” great grief and pain. His letter, also, was short 
and to the point. And so our little Tottie remained with old Ben Sparrow and 
Bessie, and was even more tenderly cared for than she had been before. Some* 
how or other these letters were a great consolation to George and Bessie. 

But the gossipers and rumor-mongers would not let them alone. They said 
that George’s other sweetheart had declared if he went away she would go with 
him, and would follow him all over the world. Bessie then was brought in. She 
had another lover also, a lover she liked better tlian George. Who should it be 
but young Mr. Million? He gave her those pretty ear-rings, of course; and he 
was seen to go into old Ben’s shop with beautiful flowers in his hands, and come 
away without them. Ben Sparrow encouraged him, too I Oh, it was plain to 
see what was going on ! So both George and Bessie were condemned, and kind, 
gossipers did what they could to keep them from ever coming together again. 

George and young Mr, Million met. Young Mr. Million was alone; George 
had his father with him. The sight of the idle, well-dressed, smiling young dog 
made George furious. He left his father and walked swiftly up to his enemy. A 
policeman was near. Young Mr. Million beckoned to him, and the limb of the 
law touched his helmet and came close. Jim Naldret saw the position of affairs 
in a moment. “ Come along, George,” he said, and, linking his arm in that ol 
his son, almost dragged him away.' When they reached home Mrs. Naldret made 
George promise not to molest young Mr. Million — not even to speak to him. 
“ No good can come of it, my dear boy,” she said ; “ let the scum be 1 Don’t get 
yourself into trouble for him ; he’s not worth it. He’ll meet with his deserts one 
day.” 

Time passed, and the world went on as usual. George got work at his old shop 
and worked hard through the ensuing spring and summer. At that time mur- 
murs of discontent began to be heard among the builders and carpenters — not 
only among them but among the workers in nearly every other trade as well. 
Labor was on the strike all over the country, and one trade quickly followed the 
example of another. Jim himself began to murmur; he wanted to know what 
he was to do when he got old and couldn’t work— for he had found it impqssible 
to put by money for a rainy day. 

“ Go to the workhouse, I suppose,” he said, bitterly. 


S4 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


But Mrs. tTaldret said. “Let be, Jim, let be; what’s the use of looking foiv 
ward? We should be happy enough as it is if it wasn’t for George’s misfortune* 
Poor lad ! all the salt seems to have gone out of his life.” 

In the summer the crisis occurred in the trade, and Jim Naldret came home 
one day with his hands in his pockets and said, 

“ Well; mother, do you want any washing done? I’m on strike.” 

“Jim! Jim!” cried Mrs. Naldret. “ W'hat have you done ? Remember Saul 
Fielding.” 

“ Saul Fielding wasn’t so wrong, after all,” said Jim ; “ I was a bit too hard 
on him. I can’t help myself, mother. I’m obliged to turn out with the others.’ 

It was well for them that during this time George had saved a little money; 
but although h^ gave them every penny he had saved, and although they pledged 
nearly everything of value they had in the house, they were in debt when the 
sirike was at an end. 

“ It’ll be spring before we’re clear, mother,” said Jim; “we’ve got to pay this 
and that, you know.” 

Mrs. Naldret knew it well enough, and she began to pinch and save; this little 
family fought the battle of life well. 

Old Ben Sparrow, of course, suffered with the rest. Trade grew duller and 
duller, and he drifted steadily — got from bad to worse, and from worse to worse 
than that. Autumn came and passed, and winter began to make the poor people 
shiver; for coals were at a wdcked price. Down, down went old Ben Sparrow; 
sadder and sadder grew his face: and one day, within a fortnight of Christmas — 
alas I it was just a year from the time when George was nearly going away — Bes- 
sie heard a loud and angry voice in the shop. She hurried in and saw her 
grandfather trembling behind the counter. The man who had uttered the 
angry words was quitting the shop. Bessie asked for an explanation. 

“ It’s the landlord, my dear,” he sobbed upon her shoulder; “it’s the land- 
lord. I’ve been behindhand with the rent ever so long, and I’ve promised him 
and promised him, hoping that trade would improve, until he’s quite furious and 
swears that he’ll put a man in possession to-morrow morning.” 

“ And you can’t pay him, grandfather? ” 

“Bessie, my darling,” sobbed old Ben, “tliere isn’t eighteen pence in the 
house, and I owe other money as well. I’m a ruined man, Bessie, I’m a ruined 
man ! And you, my dear ! Oh, dear ! Oh, dear I what is to become of us?” 

And the poor old fellow pleaded to her and asked her forgiveness a hundred 
times, as if he were the cause of their misfortunes. No need to say how Bessie 
consoled and tried to cheer him. She drew him into the parlor and coaxed and 
fondled him, and rumpled the little hair he had on his head, and so forgot her 
own sorrow out of sympathy for his that he almost forgot it too. But once dur- 
ing the night, while she was sitting on a stool at his feet, he said, softly and 
sadly, “ Ah, Bess I I wouldn’t mind this trouble— I’d laugh at it, really— if— 
if ” 

“ If what, dear ? ” 

“ If you and George were together, my darling.” 

She did not reply, but rested her head on his knee and looked sadly into the 
scanty fire. She saw no happy pictures in it, 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND EiSSES. 


86 


THE MAN IN POSSESION. 

Old Ben 8pnrrow had genuine cause for his distress.* Iluin not only stared 
him in the face but laid hold of him with a hard grip. The landlord was as good 
or as bad; as his word. He called the following morning for his rent, and, as it 
was not forthcoming, he took an inventory and put a man in possession. He 
brought this person in with him. A strange-looking man, with at least a twelve- 
month’s growth of hair on his face, and all of it as white as snow. The faces ofBen 
Sparrow and Bessie were almost as white as they followed the hard landlord from 
room to room, like mourners at a funeral. There was first the shop — with very 
little stock in it, and that little in bad condition. As the landlord said. How 
could a man expect to do business, and be able to pay his way honestly, when 

rerything he had to sell was stale and mouldy? And old Ben answered, 
numbly, 

“Yes, yes, sir; you're quite right, sir. I ought to have known better. It’s all 
my fault, Bessie, my darling ; all my fault! ” And he felt as if, instead of an imme- 
diate execution coming to him, he ought to be led off to immediate execution. 

“ What d’ye call these?” asked the landlord, contemptuously. “Figs! Why, 
they’re as sh.iiveled as — as you are.” 

“Yes, yes, sir; quite right, sir. We are, sir, we are; we ought to be put 
away! We’re worth nothing now — nothing now ! ” 

After the shop came the parlor; with the fu niture that old Ben had bought 
for his wedding mere than forty years ago. Fie sobbed as the landlord called 
out, “One old arm-chair, stuffed and rickety!” and said to Bessie, “Your 
grandmother’s favorite chair, my darling! ” 

The old fellow could have knelt and kissed the “ one old arm-chair, stuffed 
and rickety,” he was so tender about it. Then they went into the kitchen ; then 
up stairs to Ben Sparrow’s bedroom, and old Ben cried again as “ One old 
wooden bedstead, wheezy! ” went down in the inventory; then into another bed- 
room, where Bessie and Tottie slept. The man in possession stooped down by 
the child’s bed. • 

“What are you looking for?” demanded the landlord, testily. 

“I was thinking the child might be there,” replied the man in possession, 
meekly; “there is a chdd, isn’t there?” 

“What if there is!” exclaimed the landlord. “Can’t sell a child. There’s no 
market for them.” 

Old Ben explained : “There is a child. Poor little Tottie ! But we’ve sent her 
out to a neighbor’s, thinking you would come.” 

“And might frighten her, eh?” said the landlord. And shortly afterward took 
his departure, leaving the man in possession, with strict injunctions not to allow 
a thing to be taken out of the house. 

“ You’re accountable, mind you,” were his last words. 

Bessie and her grandfather felt as if the house had been suddenly turned into 
a prison, and as if this man, with his strange face and snow-white hair, had been 
appointed their jailer. As he did not appear to notice them, old Ben beckoned 


BEEAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES* 


to Bessie, and they crept out of the parlor into the shop for all the world as if 
they had been found guilty of some desperate crime. In the shop they breathed 
more freely. 

“ What are we to do with him, Bessie?’’ asked Ben. “What do they generally 
do with men in possession? They give ’em tobacco and beer, I’ve heard. Oh 
dear! oh dear! I don’t mind for myself, my darling; I don’t mind for myself. 
It’s time I was put away. But for you, Bessie — oh, my darling child 1 what 
have I done to deserve this? What have I done? What have I done?” 

“Grandfather,” said Bessie, firmly, “you mustn’t go on like this. We must 
have courage. Now, I’ve made up my mind what I’m going to do. I’m going to 
take care of you, dear grandfather, as you have taken care of me. You know 
how clever I am with my needle, and I intend to get work; and you shall thread 
my needles for me, grandfather. We can live on very little — ” 

Her poor, white lips began to tremble here, and she kissed the old man again 
and again, and cried in his arms, to show how courageous she was. 

“I beg your pardon,” said a gentle voice behind them. It was the man in pos- 
session who spoke. “I beg your pardon,” he repeated. “May I beg a word 
with you in the parlor?” 

They dared not for their lives refuse him, and they followed him tremblingly. 

“I am aware,” he said then, as they stood before him like criminals, “that I 
am here on an unpleasant duty, and that I must appear very disagreeable in your 
eyes — 

^‘No, no, sir,” remonstrated Ben, feeling that his fate and Bessie’s were in this 
man’s hands; “don’t say that, sirl Quite the contrary, indeed, sir; quite the 
contrary, eh, Bessie?” 

And the arch old hypocrite tried to smile, to show that he was delighted with 
the man’s company. 

^‘But I assure you,” continued the man, “that I have no desire to annoy or 
distress you. I have gone through hardships myself ” — with a motion of his 
hand toward his white hair — “ as you may see.” — 

What is it you want us to do, sir?” asked Ben Sparrow. “I am sure any- 
thing you want, such as tobacco or beer — or anything that there is in the cup- 
board — ** 

'‘I want you to feel as if I wasn’t in the house. I know, for instance, that this 
is your sitting-room ; I don’t want you to run away from it. If you like, I will 
go and sit in the kitchen.” 

“No, no, sirl” implored Ben Sparrow. “Not for worlds. We couldn’t allow 
such a thing, could we, Bessie? This is my granddaughter, sirl — the dearest 
child that man ever had! ” 

Why, here was the man in possession, as old Ben broke down, actually patting 
him on the shoulder, and looking into his face with such genuine sympathy, that 
before Ben knew where he was, he had held out his hand as to a fr-iendl What 
would the next wonder be? 

“That’s right,” said the man in possession; “we may as well be comfortable 
together, and I shall take it ill of you if you and your granddaughter do not use 
the parlor just as if I wasn’t here. If you don’t, J shall go and sit in the 
kitchen.” 


BREAD-AND-CnEESE AND KISSES. 


87 


They could do nothing else after this but look upon the parlor as their own 
again. Bessie felt very grateful to the man for the sympathy he had shown to 
her grandfather, and she took out her old work-box, and sat down to mend a 
pair of Tottie’s socks. “ The way that child makes holes in her toes and heels is 
most astonishing,” Ben had often remarked. 

The man in possession glanced at the little socks, and then at Bessie, so • 
thoughtfully and kindly that she gave him a wistful smile, which he returned, 
and said, 

“Thank you, child!” in a very sweet and gentle tone. 

When dinner-time came, and before they could ask him to share their humble 
meal, he went to the street-door and called a boy, who, in obedience to his in- 
structions, bought some cold meat and bread at a neighboring shop. All he 
asked Bessie to give him was a glass of cold water, and with this and his bread 
and meat he made a good meal. To the astonishment of Bessie and old Ben, 
they found they were growing to like him. After dinner, he seemed to be 
drowsy, and sat with closed eyes and thoughtful face in the corner of the room 
he had appropriated to himself, which, it may be remarked, was not the warmest 
corner. Bessie and old Ben talked in whispers at first, so as not to disturb him, 
but after a time his regular breathing convinced them that he was sleeping, and 
Bessie laid down her plans to the old man. When they were turned out of the 
shop they would take one room, Bessie said ; they would be very comfortable, 
she was sure, if they would only make up their minds to be so, and she would 
work for all three — for grandfather, Tottie, and herself. Indeed, the girl showed 
herself so much of a true woman in her speech that she was almost beginning to 
persuade the old man that what had occurred was, after all, no great misfortune. 

^‘How strange that his hair should be white I” remarked Ben, looking at the 
sleeping man. “He does not seem old enough for that. He isn’t very attentive 
to his duties, whatever they may be. Why, Bessie,” said the old man, in a whis- 
per that was almost glee lul, “we could actually runaway!” But his thoughts 
assumed their sadder tenor immediately afterward, and he sighed, “Ah, Bessie! 
What wiil George think of all this? They’ve had trouble at home too, Bessie 
dear, during the strike. I often wished, during that time, that I could have gone 
and sat with them, and comforted them; and you wished so too, Bess, I know.” 

“Yes, dear,” answered Bess, in a quiet tone, “I wished so too. But George 
might have put a wrong construction upon it.” 

'‘Bess, darling, tell me — ” 

“No, no!” cried Bessie, holding up her hands entreatingly, for she anticipated 
what he was about to say. “Don’t ask me, grandfatlscr! It can never, never be! 
Oh, my dear, I try to forget, but I can’t! ” She paused, unable to proceed for 
her tears, but presently said, “I should be so much happier if he thought better 
of me — although I know we can never be to each other what we were. I was 
angry and indignant at first, but I am not so now. If he had only answered me 
about Tottie — dear little Tottie — ” The man murmured in his sleep, and they 
spoke in hushed voices. 

“It was wrong of me to doubt him,” continued the girl, “very, very wrong! 
I should have trusted him, as he told mfe to. He can never think well of me 
again— never, never! But do you know, dear, that I have loved Tottie more 


88 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


since that time than I did before — poor little motherless thing I I shall never be 
happy again! Never again! Oh, my poor heart!” 

It was Ben’s turn now to be the consoler, and he soothed her, and caressed her, 
and suddenly cried, 

“ Bessie ! young Mr. Million ! ” 

What made Bessie turn white at the name? What made her gasp and bite her 
lips as the young gentleman entered the room? 

“I am grieved to hear of what has happened, Mr. Sparrow,” he said, takin 
off his hat, “ and I have come at once to ask if you will allow me to assist 
you.” 

Hush, if you please, sir,” returned Ben. “Speak low. That — that man in 
the corner has been put in by the landlord, and I shouldn’t like to wake him. 
We are in great distress — ruined, I may say, sir — ” 

“Then let me help you,” interrupted young Mr. Million, eagerly. “It will be 
a pleasure to me. Let me pay this man off. You and Miss Sparrow will confer 
an obligation upon me — believe me ! — if you will allow me to do this.” 

“I thank you for your ofier, sir,” replied Ben, with a helpless look around the 
humble room in which he had spent many happy years, “ but ” — something in 
Bessie’s face imparted a decision to his voice — “ it can’t be, sir, it can’t be.” 

^‘Why?” 

“Well, sir, it might get talked about, and that wouldn’t do Bessie any good. 
You see, sir, you are so far above us that it’s impossible we — we can mix, sir. 
Yes, sir, that’s it; it’s impossible we can mix. No, sir, it can’t be.” 

Young Mr. Million was silent for a few moments, and tapped with his fingers 
impatiently on the table. 

*‘For some time,” he then said, “I have seen that you and Miss Sparrow have 
rejected my advances, and have been different from what you were. Why, may 
I ask again?” 

“Well, sir,” replied old Ben, emboldened by the expression on Bessie’s face, 
“it is best to speak plain. You see, sir, the neighbors wHl talk: and when they 
see a gentleman like you always a-visiting poor people like us, they want to 
know the reason of it. And as we’ve no reason to give, they make one for them- 
selves. People will talk, you see, sir, and I am afraid that my Bessie’s name — 
my Bessie! the best girl in the world, sir; good enough to be a princess — ” 

“That she is,” put in young Mr. Million. 

‘^Well, sir, as I was saying, I am afraid that my Bessie’s name has got mixed 
up with yours by people’s tongues in such a way as to cause sorrow to her and 
to me. I have heard, sir, that she was seen one day — nearly a year ago now — go 
into your house, and that has been set against her, and flung into her teeth, as a 
body might say. Well, she did go into your house that once — and only that 
once, mind! — and toolru letter from me which you desired me to send by her 
last year when I was in trouble. You helped us then, sir, and I am grateful to 
you, though I can’t pay you. And we’ve got it into our heads — Bessie and me — 
that that, and the ear-rings you gave her — for they^ve been talked about too, and 
that’s the reason we sent them back to you — was the cause of a greater sorrow 
to my poor girl than she has ever experienced in her life.” 

“Oh I” exclaimed yojing Mr. Million, with a slight sneer in his tone. “Yon 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES. 


89 


mean hecanse the affair between Miss Sparrow and that cub, George Naldret, 
has been broken off.” 

From Bessie’s eyes came such a flash, that if the idle young dog could have 
flown through the door, and have disappeared there and then instantaneously, 
he would have gladly availed himself of the opportunity. Old Ben Sparrow’s 
blood, also, was up. 

“Be kind enough “io go, sir,” he said, with more dignity of manner than Bes- 
sie had ever seen in him ; “and wherever we arp, either here or elsewhere, leave 
us to ourselves and our troubles.” 

Their voices roxised the man in possession; he yawned, and opened his eyes. 
Young Mr. Million sa\/ here an opportunity to assert himself as the hoir of a 
great brewery, and to indulge in a small piece of malice, at one and the same 
time. 

“I must show my sense of your ingratitude,” he said, “by somewhat severe 
measures, and therefore you will arrange at once for the repayment of the money 
I have advanced to you. I must remind you that there is such a thing as impris- 
onment for debt. As for the money which your son embezzled from our firm, I 
must leave my father to settle that Nvith you. In the meantime — ” 

“In the meantime,” interrupted the man in possession, to the astonishment of 
all, “I’m the master of this house, being in possession; and as you’re not down 
in the inventory, I must request you to leave.” 

And without allowing the idle young dog to utter another word, the man in 
possession, with a wrist of iron, twisted him around and thrust him from the old 
grocer’s shop. 

So young Mr. Million, for a fresh supply of wild oats, had to go to another 
market. And doubtless succeeded in obtaining them ; they are plentiful 
enough. 

Ben Sparrow could not but thank the man in possession for his friendly 
interference. 

“Don’t mention it,” said the man in possession, adding, with an odd smile, 
**he’s not down in the inventory, you know.” 

The interview had caused old Ben and Bessie great agitation, and left them 
sadly distressed ; but nothing could exceed the consideration of the man in pos- 
session. He did not ask them for a word of explanation. When, indeed, the 
old man stumblingly referred to it, he turned the conversation, and asked for a 
sheet of paper and an envelope. These being supplied to him, he wrote a note, 
and when, after putting it into the envelope and addressing it, he looked up, his 
hitherto sad face wore such a bright expression, that Ben whispered to his grand- 
daughter, “ Really, Bessie, he is a good fellow; he puts heart into one;” and 
said,-aloud, “Can I post your letter for you, sir? ” 

“ No, thank you,” was the reply ; “ I can send it by a messenger. I mustn’t 
let you out of my sight, you know. The landlord said I was accountable for you.” 

Old Ben began to feel as if he were in prison again. 

It was dark when Tottie was brought home; she ran into the parlor calling for 
grandfather and Bessie, and jumped into their arms, and kissed them, and pulled 
old Ben’s hair ; she seemed to bring light in with her. 

“ Is that Tottie? ” asked the man in possession, in a tremulous tone. 


90 


BEEAD-AND-CnEESE AKD EI?SES. 


sir;, yes,” replied old Ben. “ Go to the gentleman, my dear.” 

Somothiu^j' like a sob came from the man in possession as he lifted Tottie and 
kissed her; and when, a little while afterward, the lamp was lighted, and Tottie 
was seen curled up contentedly in the man’s arms eating sweets which he was 
giving her — with such a sweet tooth as Tottie had, it was no wonder she was 
easily bought over — old Ben whispered to Bessie: 

“ Depend upon it, my dear, he has got a little daughter at home, that maket 
him fond of Tottie.” 

Everything about this strange man was so gentle that they actually looked 
apon him as a friend instead of an enemy. 


SOFTLY, SWEETLY, PEOCEEDS THE HYMN OF HOME. 

“It is a story about two friends ” 

It is the man in possession who is speaking. Tottie is lying in his arms as con- 
tentedly as if she had known him all her life; he has told her the prettiest of sto- 
ries, and the child has crowed and laughed over them, until she is almost tired 
with the pleasure and excitement. And now, alfhough it is very nearly eleven 
o’clock, and time to think of going to bed, Bessie and her grandfather find them- 
selves listening to a story which he says he desires to tell them. Of course they 
dare not refuse to listen. 

“ It is a story about two friends — mainly about those, although the dearest 
hopes of others belter and purer than they are mixed up in it. The story is a 
true one. What thall I call these friends, so as to distinguish them? Shall I say 

George for one What is the matter, my dear?” For Bessie has looked 

with a startled glance into the stranger’s face. “George is a common name 
enough, and this man whom I call George is a good man in every sense of the 
wo: d. S y, shall I call him George ? ” 

“ Yes, if you please,” rcj)]ics Bessie, faintly, turning her face from him. 

“And the other — I will c 11 him S-ul.” 

“ Bessie, my dear ! ” exclaims old Ben Sparrow. “Do you hear? Saul and 
George ! ” 

Bessie’s hand steals into his, and the stranger continues. 

“ Say, then, Saul and George. They lived and grew to manhood in just such a 
neighborhood as this. Saul was the elder of the two by six or seven years; but 
notwithstanding the difference in tlieir ages, they became firm friends. They 
talked much together, and read together; for Saul was a great reader, and took 
delight in studying, and (according to his own thinking) setting wrong things 
right. I believe that at one time of his life, he really had a notion that it was his 
mission to redress the wrongs of his claas; at all events it is certain that he 
elected himself the champion of his fellow’-workraen ; and as he had the fatal 
gift of being able to speak well and fluently, the men listened to him, and ac- 
cepted his high-flown words as the soundest of logic. George admired his 
jfriend, althouch he did not agree with him; and when he was a man he took aa 
opportoaity of vowing eternal friendship to Saul. Such a vow meant something 


BREAD-AND-CHSESE AITO KISSES. 


et 


more than words with George ; for he was constant and true to the dictates ct 
his heart. Where he professed friendship, there he would show it. Where he 
professed love, there would he feel it. And it might be depended upon that 
neither in hia friendship nor his love would he ever change. He was no idle 
talker. Saul, working himself into a state of false enthusiasm respecting his 
mission, waited but for an opportunity to raise his flag. The opportunity came. 
A dispute arose between master and men in a certain workshop ; Saul plunged 
himself into the dispute, and by his fatal gift inhamed the men, and fannet^ the 
discontent until it spread to other workshops. Neither men nor masters would 
yield. A strike was the result. In this strike Saul was the principal agitator 
he was the speaker, and the man upon whom all depended, in whom all trusted. 
Hear-, in a few words, what occurred then. After making things as bitter as he 
could ; after making the men believe that the masters were their natural ene« 
mies; after making a speech one night filled with false conclusions, but which 
fired the men to a more determined resistance; after doing all this, Saul sud- 
denly deserted his followers and left them in the lurch. He told them that, upon 
more serious consideration, he had been led to alter his mind, and that he was 
afraid of the misery a longer fight would bring upon them and their families. 
The men were justly furious wkh him; they called him names w’hich he deserved 
to be called ; and the result was that the men returned to work upon the old 
terms, and that all of them — masters and men — turned their backs upon the man 
who had betrayed them. Only one among them remained his friend. That one 
was George. From that day Saul began to sink; he could get no work; and he 
dragged down with liiin a woman who loved him, who had trusted in him, and 
-whom be had robbed of her good name. Stay, my dear,” said the man in pos- 
session, placing a restraining hand upon Bessie’s sleeve ; the girl had risen, un- 
certain whether to go or to stay. “ You must hear what I have to say ; I will en- 
deavor to be brief. This woman had a child, a daughter, born away from the 
neighborhood in which Saul was known. Her love was great; her grief was 
greater. Saul showed himself during this time to be not only a traitor, but a 
coward. He took to drink. Wliat, then, did this good woman— ah, my dear, 
how good she wac only Saul knows! — what did this good wmman resolve to do 
for her child’s sake ? She resolved that she would not allow her child to grow 
up and be pointed at as the child of shame ; that she would endeavor to find 
some place where it cculd be cared for, and where, if happier times did not come 
to her, the child might grow up in the belief that her parents were dead. Shame 
should not cast its indelible shadow over her darling’s life. Saul, in his better 
mood, agreed with her. ‘ I have no friends,’ said this woman to Saul ; ‘have you? 
Have you a friend who, out of his compassion for the child and friendship for you, 
would take my darling from me, and care for it as his own ? Saul had no friend 
hut one. George 1 He went to George and told him his trouble, and this dear, 
-noble friend, this man ! arranged with a neighbor to take the child, and bring 
her up. He promised sacredly to keep Saul’s secret, and only to tell one person 
the story of the forsaken one. ‘ I may marry one day, Saul,’ he said, ‘ and then 
I must tell it to my wife.’ In this way the mother obtained her desire ; in this 
way came about her love’s sacrifice 1 ” 

Tick— tick— lick— comes from the old-fashioned clock in the comer. Bessie 


BEEAD- AND- CHEESE AND KISSES. 


B2 

has sunk into her chair, and her head is bowed upon the table. She hears the 
clear tick, and thinks of a year ago, when, standing at the door with her lover, it 
sounded so painfully in her ears. What pain, what pleasure, has this strange 
man brought to her I For she knows that the story he is telling is true, and 
that Saul’s friend, George, is her George, whom she has loved truly and faith- 
fully during all this sad year. What pain ! What pleasure ! What pain to feel 
that George is parted from her forever ! What pleasure to know that he is with- 
out a stain, that he is even more noble than her love had painted him 1 She 
raises her head ; her eyes are almost blinded by her tears; she stretches forth her 
arms for Tottie. 

“ Let me nurse her ! ” she sobs. 

** No, my dear,” says the man in possession ; but he places Tottie’s lips to hers, 
and then stoops and kisses Bessie’s tears which have fallen on the little one’s 
face. “ There is more to tell. Shall I go on ? ” 

“ Yes.” 

“ A happy time comes to George. He falls in love with a tender-hearted, pure- 
souled girl ” 

Bessie kneels at his feet, and looks in bewilderment at the man’s strange face, 
at his snow-white hair, and in gratitude raises his hand to her lips. 

“There, there, child!” he says; “sit down — you interrupt my story. They 
are engaged to be married, and George is anxious to make a home for his bird. 
But trade is slack, and he can save no money. Then comes a false man — whom 
we will call Judas — into the story, who, under the pretense- of friendship for 
George, gives him a passage ticket to the colonies, where George can more 
quickly save money to buy the home to which he yearns to bring his bird. But 
on the very night — within three hours of the time when George is to look his last 
upon the little house in which he was born — he learns from Saul that this pre- 
tended friend has played him false, has told him lies, and has given him the 
ticket only for the purpose of getting him out of the country so that Judas can 
pay court to the girl who reigns in George’s heart. Other doubts and misunder- 
standings unfortunately accumulate in these critical moments; George learns 
that the girl was seen to go into the house where Judas’ father lives; learns that 
Judas has given her a pair of ear-rings; learns that Judas was seen by George’s 
mother to place a letter in the girl’s hands — ” 

“ It was for grandfather! ” cries Bessie. “It contained money for grandfather, 
to help him out of his trouble ! ” 

“Hush, my dear ! What know you of this story of mine? When George learns 
all this he is in an agony of despair. He takes the ticket from his pocket and is 
about to destroy it, when Saul falls on his knees at his friend’s feet and begs, en- 
treats, in his agony, for the ticket, so that he may go instead of George. For 
Saul’s dear woman has left him — has charged him, by his love for her and for 
their child, to make an effort to lift them from shame ; and he sees no way — no 
way but this which is suddenly opened to him. George gives his friend the 
ticket, and the next day Saul bids good-by to the laud which holds all that is 
dear to his heart.” 

The man in possession pauses here, and old Ben Sparrow gazes earnestly at 
him. When he resumes, his voice grows more solemn. 


BREAD-AND-CHEESE AND KISSES, 


03 


“ Saul reaches his destination, and after much wandering finds a shelter in the 
mountains with a little colony of gold-diggers. He makes a friend there — David. 
Another — David’s wife. God rest their souls ! Another — David’s little daughter. 
Saul finds gold, and thanks God for his goodness. He will come home and make 
atonement. But the snow season sets in, and he and his companions are im- 
prisoned by mountains of snow whose shallowest depth is sufficient for a man’s 
grave if he is buried upstanding. An awful night comes, when the snow-drift 
walls up their tents. In the morning the tents are hemmed in — the diggers can- 
not open their doors. Near to the tent in which Saul and David and David’s 
wife and David’s little daughter live is a tree. Saul climbs to the roof of the 
tent, breaks through it, climbs on to the tree, and calls to his friends to folloAv 
him. David tries, and fails; he falls back into the tent and hurts himself to 
death. Saul, in an agony, calls out for David’s little daughter, and the mother 
succeeds in raising the child through the roof of the tent; Saul clutches the 
little girl and takes her to his heart. All this time the stoi-m is raging — the snow 
rises higher and higher. David commands his wife to save herself; she refuses, 
and stays to nurse him, and slowly, slowly, my dears, the snow falls — the walls of 
the tent give way — and David’s wife meets a noble death, and both find their 
grave.” 

Awe-struck they listen to this sti*ange man’s story. A look of pity steals into 
his face — and then he murmurs to himself, “No; why should 1 bring sadness 
upon them this night?” And says, aloud, 

“The tree to which Saul cli ngs for dear life with David’s little daughter, one other 
man manages to reach. His story you shall hear to-morrow ; sufficient here to say 
that it is a strange one, and it comes strangely to Saul’s ears. He bequeaths his 
gold to Saul for a good purpose. But this man is weak; his strength fails him 
in the night; and when the next morning’s sun rises, Saul and David’s little 
daughter are the only ones left. Can you picture Saul to yourself clinging to the tree 
and holding in his arms the life of a dear little one ? Can you realize the agony of 
the time? Can you believe that his grief and tribulation are so great during the 
two terrible days that follow that his hair turns snow-white—” 

“ But he is saved ? ” cries Bessie and her grandfather at once. 

“He is saved.” 

“And David’s little daughter — ?” 

“Is saved also, God be thanked 1 ” 

They draw a long breath. 

“But little remains to be told. Saul comes home, bringing David’s little 
daugliter with him — bringing gold with him. He seeks his dear woman. He 
marries her. He hears that the old man and the dear girl who have protected 
and reared his child are in trouble— that an execution is to be put into the old 
man’s shop for rent — ” 

“And he becomes a man in possession!” cries old Ben, starting up in inde- 
scribable excitement. “Oh, dear I oh, dear I He becomes a man in posses- 
sion 1 ” 

The tolling of a bell is heard, 

“As yo‘u say. Is not that the "Westminster clock beginning to chime the hour? 
Listen for one min ute more. When Judas comes in this afternoon do you think 


94 


BBBA]>-iJn>-CHEESE AKD K 18 SE 8 . 


the man in possession is asleep? No; he is awake, and hears every word that 
passes, and such a joy comes into his heart as he cannot describe — for he thinks 
of George, that dear friend, that noble friend, that Man! What does the man in 
possession do when Judas has gone? He writes a letter, doesn’t he? Harkl 
the last hour is tolling! Twelve! ” 

The door opens, and Bessie, with a wild cry, moves but a step, and presses her 
hand to her heart. George stands before her, pale with the excitement of the 
moment, but hopeful, and with love in his eyes. 

“ George, my dear boy ! ” cries old Ben, grasping the young man’s hands. 

“ Can you forgive me, Bessie ? ” asks George. 

A grateful sob escapes from the girl’s over-charged heart, and the lovers are 
linked in a close embrace. 

As if this happy union has conjured them up, there enter on the instant Jim 
Naldret and Mrs. Naldret — she nursing David’s little daughter. And behind 
them, with a wistful look, with hands that are convulsed with excess of tender- 
ness, with eyes and face and heart filled with yearning love, stands the mother 
hungering for her child ! Tenderly and solemnly Saul places Tottie in Jane’s 
arms. The mother steals softly into the shop with her child, and Saul follows 
and kneels before her. Presently she takes him also to her breast. 

*‘Dear wife!” he murmurs; and a prayer of infinite thankfulness for the 
mercy and the goodness of God comes to his mind. 

Half an hour afterward he enters the room with Jane and their child. 

“Bessie,” he says, “this is my wife, Jane.” 

And as Bessie kisses her and caresses her, the sorrow of the past melts into 
latitude for the present. 

They sit and talk. 

“ George and I are going into business together,” says Saul. “ We shall start 
a little shop of our own.” 

“And stop at home,” remarks Mrs. Naldret, “and be contented.” 

“Yes,” replies George, “on bread-and-cheese and kisses. I shall be able to 
buy my pots and pans now.” 

Somehow or other George has come into possession of the little^ silk purse 
again. 

“Bessie!” exclaims Mrs. Naldret “My dream that I told you last year ’U 
come true ! ” 

The maid blushes. She is dreaming happily now. So. are they all, indeed. 
Old Ben hopes that they will not wake up presently. 

Silence falls upon them. And in the midst of the silence the sounds of music 
steal to their ears, and they gaze at each other with earnest, grateful eyes. It is 
the waits playing “Home, sweet home.” 

“Do you remember, George?” says Bessie, with a tender clasp. 

Softly, sweetly, proceeds the hymn of Home, The air is filled with harmony 
and prayer. 




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A Sliawl Strap is particularly desirabl* 
as a companion when journeying, shopping, 
at picnics, or its convenience is unques- 
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strap is luatle of the line.'t ni->et-colored 
leather, and lias a patent rigid bar, wnich 
is a gieat iniptoveiuent. 

We Offer it for Sale for 50 Certs. 

The Sh wl Sir p and a copy of this 
book, or any book in the Farm and 
Fireside Library, for 65 cents. 

The above premium will be sent by 
mail, postpaid, to any one sending an order fons^Ao copies of this book, at 25 cents each. 
Or, an order for any two books in the Farm and Fireside Library, at 25 cents each. 

The books can be sent to one person and the premium to another, or each book to I 
•oparato parson if desired, and the postage will be prepaid in each case. 

AdUreu F ARM AND flNNSIDE CO., Springfield, OMo. 


COLD HANDLE! DOUBLE POINTED! 

We t«ko pleasurn in announcing an arrangement by whu h we are enabled to offer the 
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WE OFFER A COfAPLETE SET FOR SALE FOR $2.50. 

The f'omplete .Set and a copy of this book, or any book in the Farm and Fire* 
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The above premiiim will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any one sending ns an 
order for eighteen eopies of tlii.s book, at cents each. Or, au order for any 
eiehteou books in the Farm and Fires dc Library, at *25 cents each. 

Ttie books can be sent to ooe person and the preiiiiiiui to another, or each book 
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Address FARM AND FIRESIDE CO., Springfield. Ohio. 


Mrs. POTTS SAD IRONS. 


TELESCOPE! 

1 his To escope is a beautiful and 
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It has an achromatic object-glass, and is strongly made. 

WE OFFER IT FOR SALE FOR $2.50. 



The Telescope and a copy of this book, or any book in the Farm and Fireside Library, 
for $2.65. 


The above premium will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any one sending us an order for 
eighteen copies of this book, at 25 cents each. Or, an order for any eighteen books in the 
Farm and Fireside Library, at 25 cents each. 

The books can be sent to one person and the premium to another, or each book to a 
separate person if desired, and the postage will be prepaid in each case. 

Address TAUM AND FIRESIDE CO., Springfield, Ohio. 


DRAWING INSTRUMENTS! 



This Premium consists of a box of Drawing Instruments, containing a pair of inch bras-s 
dividers, with pen and pencil points and lengthening bar, drawing pen, horn protractor and 
rule divided into eighths, two wood triangles, one of 30 degrees, and one of 45 degrees. 

WE OFFER IT FOR* SALE FOR $1.50. 

The Drawing Instruments and a copy of this book, or any book in the Farm and Fireside 
Library, for $1.65. 

The above premium will be sent by mail, postpaid, to any one sending us an order for eight 
copies of this book, at 25 cents each. Or, an order for any eight books in the Farm and 
Fireside Library, at 25 cents each. 

The books can be sent to one person and the premium to another, or each book to • 
•oparate person if desired, and the postage will be prepaid in each case. 

Address FARM AND FIRESIDE CO., Springfield, Ohio. 


FRANKLIN SQUARE LIBRARY 

We have made arrangements with the publishers whereby we are enabled to otter the 
following books of the Franklin Square Library to our readers: We will send any 

TKN" BOOKS described below, by mail, post-paid to any address, on receipt of OlVB 
BOLiBAR; and for Twenty-Five Cents extra, sent at the same time, will include one year’s 
subscription to Farm ami Fireniiley tbe leading Agricultural and Home Journal of 
the world. '1 he list is as follows : 

Book No. 311. Life of James A. Garfield. By Edmund Kirke. A truthful record of the life 
of our late president. ( ontains a number of illustrations. 

Book No. 312. Social Etiquette. A universal hand-book of social etiquette and home culture 

for ladies and gt i ilemen. 

Book No. 314. Selected Poems of Matthew Arnold. This volume contains a large number 
of the ino.st popular puems hi this eminent poet. 

Book No. 315. Sport and Work on the Nepaul Frontier: or. Twelve Years’ Sporting Rem- 
iniscences of an Indigo Planter. Ihe novelty of the author’s daring adventures cannot fail 
to win attention. 

Book No. 317. His Little Mother. By author of “John Halifax.” A very interesting little 
s o:y of a twin brother sister, told in the author’s peculiar, brilliant and spirited style. 
This volume contains seven other stories of equal interest, suited to all tas es. 

Book No. 318. My Heart’s in the Highlands. A novel justly praised lor the originality 
and the dramatic interest of its plot. 

Book No. 319. The Fugitives. By Mrs. Oliphant. The felicity of expression and aptitude 
for story-telling by t.ns author is remarkable, and the reader will find a number of those 
suggestive hints and unobtrusive charms which show the hand of a true artist. 

Book No. 320. An Eye for an Eye. By Anthony Trollope. This well-known author wields 
a viooroif^ pen, and in this book thelfe are evidences of unusual intellectual power. 

Book No. 321. Orange Lily. By Mary Crommelin. A very entertaining love story, the scene 
of whch is in Scotland, and it is a story of Lily, whose solt temper fitted to everybody else’s 
shape of mind, and when a girl, was, from her curioudy smiling, little, freckled face and 
reddish pate— neatly combed and thick— dubbed Orange Lily. 

'•No. 322. Cousin Simon. A Novel. By the Hon. Mrs. Robert Marsham. This book is a 
bly interesting work, being full of pleasing incidents, and is sufficiently exciting to 
hon. attention of the most exacting novel readers. 

Book No. j 23. The Heart of Holland. By Henry Harvard. Translatfd by Mrs. Cashel 
Hoey. A his'oryof Holl. nd. It is very interesting throughout as well as instructive, and 
sliould be read by both old and young. 

Book No. 324. The History of a Crime. By Victor Hugo. A very remarkable book, and 
readers will linger with devcdion over tbe fascinating ja ges of a History ol a ( rime— being 
the testimony of an eye witness who, with other Frenchmen, was exikd, and who becomes 
a historian, reciting the events of the past, abounding in details, and living, it might be said 
bleeding, with real facts. 

Book No. 325. Cross Purposes. A Novel. By Cecilia Findlay. This work is a bright and 
fascinating novel, written n an animated and unaflected style. Thewoikis attractive for 
its freshne.ss, and jdeases the reader by its sweet naturalness of feeling and its quiet path< s. 
Book No. 326. Light and Shade. A Nov( 1. By Charlotte G, O’Brien. This very clever and 
intere.'ting stor> , which begins in the autuiirn belore the Fenian rising of 1867, gives a won- 
derful account of life in Ireland at that time, with every phase of which the writer appears 
to be thoroughly familiar. 

Book No. 327. Eoihen ; or, Traces of Travel Brought Home from the East. By Alexander 
W. Kinglake. A sketch of a tour through tie East, bid in a very comprehensive and 
graphic manner. His wonderiul descriptions ol travel at the Pass of the Lebanon, at 
Damascus, from Cairo to Suez, exploring the pyramids, and at the Dead Sea, should here: d 
by everybody. The spirit and enthusiasm with which Mr. Kinglake writes his travels 
makes it so absorbingly intere.sting that it is almost impossible to lay the bock down. 

Book No. 320, The Bachelor of the Albany. A Novel. A very interesting wi rk and bears 
many marks of unusual talent. A more thorough realistic sketch of character has not been 
given to the public for sometime, and it may be read with decided pleasure. 

Book No. 329. The Posy Ring. A Novel. By Mrs. Alfred W. Hunt. Very bright and fas- 
cinating, as can be judged from a short quotation ; “Lucy’s three months of travel was all 
but over. On the 15th she was to return to London ai d Aunt Esther. Her visit had been 
a very happy one — a very gay one, too, — and even yet the gayety was not quite at an end, f( r 
this very night there was to be a large ball at Hazlewood. Robert Merivale was coming to it.” 
Book No. 330. Lil, Fair, Fair, with Golden Hair. By Hon. Mrs. Featherstonhaugh. An 
entertaining story of Fair Lil, of wuom “ every soul in the glen speaks well, and there’s n* t 
a cabin on the mountain-side, or even a beggar by the way, tliat doesn’t know her, though 
we may not ; so I think the somier we make her acquaintance perhaps the better for us.” 
Book No. 331. The Farmer’s Daughters. A delightful story of a farmer’s two daughters, 
of whom the hero observed upon Iniroduction that “ he liked the two girls immediately, 
for, while Carrie won his respect by her quiet, lady-like demeanor, Nell amused him with 
her quaint ways.” 

MONEY should be sent by Post-office Money Order or Registered Letter, addres.sed to 

FAItJfl AXn FIRESIDE COJIFAXY, SprittafieUl, Ohio. 


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By subscribing to the Farm and Fireside Library you can obtain 

I TO 3 DOLLAR BOOKS FOR 25 GENTS EACH. 


TEEMS OF SUBSCEIPTION TO THE FAEM AND FIEESIDE LIBEAEY : 

One Year, - - . $3.00. 

Single Copy, - .--25 Cents. 

Invariably in Advance. 


FOE 25 CENTS, A COPY OP ANY BOOZ IN THIS LIST WILL BE SENT BY MAIL, POSTPAID. 

Book No. I. Life and Adventures of Robinson Crusoe. This well-known book may be 
ranked as the most popular standard juvenile book ever printed. Our edition is complete 
in one vol. Fully illustrated. 

Book No. 2. The Pilgrim’s Progress from this world to that which is to come. This re- 
markable book, as every one knows, was written under the similitude of a dream, by John 
Bunyan, the most popular religious writer in the English language ; and perhaps more 
copies have been sold than any other book except the Bible. Our edition is complete and 
urTabridged, with appropriate illustrations. 

Book No. 3. New Farm and Fireside Cook Book. ONE OF THE BEST COOK BOOKS 
EVER PUBLISHED. Contains about 1.000 Recipes. It is just the book that every wife and 
housekeener needs. It tells how to cook all kinds of bread, cakes, and meats : it tells how 
to make'all kinds of soup; it gives recipes for cooling fish, oysters, poultry and game; it 
tells how to select the best poultry, fish, meats, etc.; it gives the best methods of preparing 
sauces and salads and all kinds of vegetables for the table; and tells the housekeeper all 
she needs to know about bread, biscuits, rolls, puddings, pies, custards, creams, cookies, tea, 
coffee, chocolate, home-made candies, antidote for poison, cooking for the sick, and many 
other useful things. 

Book No. 4. Saved at Last from Among the Mormons. Every man and woman in the 
laud should read this story, wliich is founded upon facts, and gives an insight into the low 
estate of woman under the Mormon rule. 

Book No. 5. Gulliver’s Travels. This book tells of the supposed travels and surprising 
adventures of Lemuel Gulliver into several remote regions of the world, where he met with 
a race of people no larger than your hand. Also his wonderful exploits among giants. Com- 
plete in one volume, f'inely illustrated. 

Book No. 6 . Bread and Cheese and Kisses. , By B. L. Farjeon. A very popular Christmas 
story after the style of Dickens ; abounds in 'excellent and novel features. Complete in one 
volume, with illustrations. 

Book No. 7. The Arab an Nights’ Entertainments. Illustrated with numerous wood en- 
gravings, descriptive of those many strange and singular stories which the legend says the 
Sultaness of Persia related to the Sultan night after night, in order to prolong her life, and 
thus finally won his affections and delivered the many virgins, who but for her would 
have been sacrificed to his unjust resentment. 

Book No. 8. /Esops’s Fables. The Fables of Ailsopus, an apt representative of the great social 
and intellectual movement of the age which he adorned. Born a slave, he forced his 
way by his mother-wit into the courts of princes. In one voT. Very profusely illustrated. 

Book'No. 9. John Ploughman’s Pictures ; or. More of his Plain Talk for Plain People, by 
Rev. Chas. H. Spurgeon. This book is exceedingly humorous and instructive, using the 
simplest form of words and very plain speech. To smite evil, and especially the monster 
evil of drink, has been the author’s earnest endeavor. Complete in one volume— contain- 
ing a great number of pictures. 

Book No. 10. Noble Deeds of Men and Women. A history and description of noble deeds, 
presenting correct and be;iutiful models of noble life to awaken the impulse to imitate what 
we admire. By the recorded acts of the great and good we regulate our own course, and 
stesr, star-guided, over life’s trackless ocean. 

The usual price of these books bound in cloth is SI 00 to tS.OO each. We bind them in heavy 
paper, and send them by mail and prepay the postage. They comprise a wide range and 
striking diversity of the moist brilliafit and pleasing productions of the most noted and 
popular authors, and include books of travels, adventures, fiction and bumor, so that all 
tastes will be suite I. We call it the Farm and Fireside Library, and any one obtaining 
these books will possess a library of the most popular books ever putdished. We have not 
room to give an extedod description of each book, but all will be delighted who obtain these 
noted books at so ow a price. 

THE BOOKS ar .5 the latest and most complete editions, and contain many illustrations 
one alone requiring fifty pictures to complete it. 

MONEY should he sent by Post-oflftce Money Order or Registered Letter, addressed to 

FARM AND FIRESIDE COMPANY, Springfield, Ohio. 










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